The Accidental Warrior
by freeball87
Summary: Joules Prescott leaves the vault and the woman he loves to discover the truth about the mysterious disappearance of his parents. Along the way he discovers friendships, betrayals, and disturbing revelations that may just require him to do the unthinkable - become a hero...
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, a pin prick of light winked to life. Years ago he would have recognized it as an ember of hope, but he had lost the capacity to hope long, long ago. His mind, much like his body, had been shattered many times, just to be put back together and shattered again. His mind, much like his body, was lost.

Perhaps, he thought, his eyes were playing tricks on him again. It had happened in the past. His eyes were no different than the rest of him; they also no longer functioned as they once had. His world was a lightless, soundless, empty place where the air was stagnant and full of the stench of decay. Somehow he knew he was the source of that decay, but it made no difference now. Nothing mattered to him now. His soul was like any other muscle – lack of use caused atrophy. He knew his soul, more than anything, was sick with rot. As dead as any part of him. As dead as he longed to be.

But the light persisted – nagged him. It clung to the fringes of his consciousness and would not be denied. He shook his head, unwilling to acknowledge its existence. There was no emotion more dangerous to him than that of hope, and he would not be fooled again…

But the light persisted – the ember continued to burn. Slowly, interminably, its intensity grew. The ember brightened, illuminating a corner of his mind that he had hidden so many years before. A room that he had mentally locked away so many years ago now showed a sliver of light from underneath its door. He dared not open it – swore he would never access that region of his mind again. But he could not resist – such was the nature of hope – a dangerous emotion indeed.

He had locked that door to protect them. He had no regard for himself or his own wellbeing, but he had vowed never to betray them – and he never had. He had been told that he would break. _Everyone breaks_, they said. Indeed, he had proven no different. He had broken and been broken many times. He had begged them to spare his miserably life. He had begged them to take it. He had given up many of the details of his work, but he had never betrayed those he loved – and he never would.

Of course, he had been cautious with the knowledge that he stored in that room – he had been clever. He had only stored information that required very specific questions, and through all the years of bloody interrogations and torture, they had never asked the right ones. They had asked where she had gone, and he had told them the truth: _I don't know_. They had asked what she had done with it, and again he didn't know. They asked him why, and he had answered: _Because mankind deserved a second chance. All mankind. Because there was still _hope. And there it was… that accursed emotion once again…

It was _that_ emotion that caused him to open the door to such dangerous memories. He couldn't resist. He had to gaze upon that glorious light one more time – it had been too long since he had felt its warmth. And suddenly the door was open and a wave of emotion flooded over him. He tumbled into it like driftwood in a tidal wave, bits and pieces of the past bombarded him from every angle. But at last he oriented himself to the light – the light that had led him to this specific memory at this specific time. It was a time they had agreed to 15 years ago...

It was the night that he was taken. The night he had destroyed everything to protect the ones he loved, and millions he had never met. But he hadn't truly been a martyr – he hadn't been strong enough – his will to live and fate both betraying him in the final moments. And they couldn't truly leave without planting a seed of truth within the child – truth was too important. Planting that kernel of truth was perhaps the biggest risk they had taken. And somehow, all these years later, he knew that tonight was the night that seed would grow…

But these were the very secrets the man himself had to lock away once more – dangerous secrets that he could not allow to be revealed. Mustering the last of his willpower, he once again shut the door to that small corner of his mind. And as the sliver of light slowly faded, and a single tear traced a path down the filth of his large and twisted face, he once again entered the dark world of madness…

* * *

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	2. Chapter 1

- Joules Prescott -

Joules Prescott drifted out of a sleepy fog. He detected an annoying red flash behind his eyelids and tentatively cracked one open to determine its origin. It looked like the message indicator on his Pip-Boy.

He gently rolled onto an elbow, careful not to wake Amata, and checked the time. The pale green glow of his Pip-Boy displayed 0001 and continued to indicate that he had one unread message.

Groggily Joules eased himself out of bed, glancing down at the beautiful woman sleeping next to him. She always looked so peaceful when she slept, certainly more peaceful than he felt at the moment.

Quietly he padded out into the living room, the grey tile cold on his bare feet. He grumbled as he walked, annoyed that his Pip-Boy had awakened him at midnight, annoyed that someone sent him a message so late, and especially annoyed that today he turned twenty five – a quarter century old…

His curiosity was gnawing at him, but his bladder was speaking louder. He made a quick detour to the bathroom, relieved himself, then returned to the living room and plopped down heavily on the sofa.

Staring down at his Pip-Boy, he was suddenly struck by a wave of nostalgia. His mind's eye took him back fifteen years, back to a different room, on a different sofa, on a much happier birthday.

He saw himself at ten years old, squirming on his parents' couch as they presented him his very own Pip-Boy. It was an older model "A", but that didn't matter to him. His mother had explained almost apologetically that the 3000A was, in her opinion, the most rugged and customizable model ever made – and as the Vault's resident computer genius, she would be the one to know. All Joules knew was that it was magnificent.

Receiving a Pip-Boy was a ceremonial rite of passage that all vault dwellers conducted at the coming of their tenth birthday. Although it was, in essence, an introduction into the Vault workforce, most children could hardly wait for the day to come.

The Pip-Boy was the epitome of vault technology, each instrument individually crafted and personally attuned to its recipient. The device was so personalized, in fact, that it could continually monitor and report the vital signs of its assigned wearer. It was the quintessential personal data assistant, complete with its own navigation system, radio receiver, holodisk player, and personal inventory tracking software. Joules had truly felt like a man the day his father had strapped the souped-up PDA to his wrist.

Now here he sat, fifteen years later, staring down at that very same Pip-Boy – the only thing he had left that had come from his parents. His birthday always made him maudlin. Maybe the mystery message would cheer him up, he thought, as he finally reached down and pressed play…

_"Happy Birthday, son." _

Astonishingly he heard the voice of his mother as her face materialized on the screen of his Pip-Boy. She looked exactly as he remembered her from his childhood. Well…not exactly… The woman on the screen looked worried. He could see the glistening remnants of tears in her eyes despite the smile she attempted to wear. Beneath a facade of forced serenity he detected a thinly veiled nervousness she desperately attempted to hide from him.

_Protecting me_, he thought fondly, _but from what_...

Yet, with that thought, and her affected smile, and those tear-stained eyes, he felt something he hadn't known for fifteen years – the warmth of a mother's love.

_"Joules,"_ she spoke again, the tension in her voice reflecting the apprehension that betrayed her face. _"There is so much I wish I could tell you, but – "_ she paused, her voice cracking slightly. _"But I have to keep this file small enough to go undetected when they search your Pip-Boy – and they will search it…"_ again she paused, but recovered more quickly this time.

_"Your father and I have uncovered some things – some unfathomable atrocities. The Vault, the Overseer, our research – nothing is as it seems. You will hear some awful things about us… They will call us traitors. Traitors to the Vault. Traitors to humankind…"_ She hesitated, her features melting into a mixture of disillusionment and rage. _"But know this son, what we are doing, we are doing for the _sake_ of humanity, not to _betray_ mankind, but to _save_ it, to prevent those atrocities that...!"_

She seemed to realize she was rambling and regained her composure. Once again her features shifted back to a poor approximation of control.

_"No time for philosophy, Joules, just the facts, a scientist always wants the facts…"_

The phrase brought a smile to his face and a stream of tears to his eyes. It was something she would always say to him as a child, especially when she detected the hint of untruth coming from the boy. "Don't lie to me, Joules, just tell me the facts, a scientist always wants the facts." He had learned to stick to the facts; his mother was a human lie detector.

"_Your father and I must protect the research. We must destroy the lab and leave the Vault. I wish we could take you, son, but there are just too many unknowns, too much unpredictability in the wilds of the Wasteland for us to risk exposing you. We may not even survive ourselves, but we must try. Among the things I have discovered is a secret way out of the vault. We must leave and attempt to find a place where we can finish our research. A place where pure science does not result in genocide… The world has seen enough of that already…_

_ "Joules, please understand that this is not the life we wished for you. It breaks our hearts to leave you. To entrust you to the Church as an orphan…" _Again she threatened to break down then collected herself._ "But I trust Thetan Cruz. He is a good man – a righteous man…_

_ "Now listen closely, my son. Trust no one else. The Vault is a glut of ambition and deception. Above all else, Joules, do not trust Overseer Almodovar! His depravity runs the deepest..!_

_ "And no matter what, my dear, sweat child, know this: your father and I love you very, very much – that's a _fact_, and a scientist always wants the facts…"_

Joules barely noticed the screen fade to black as his mind raced with a combination of memories and unanswered questions. Fifteen years of pain washed over him in an instant. Amidst it all, he tried to process the message he had just received.

But what did he really remember about his parents and their research...?

Catherine Prescott, his mother, was Chief Systems Engineer for the Vault Computer Lab. His father, James Prescott, headed the Bioengineering and Genetics Lab and was considered by most to be the smartest man in the Vault. Among a community of brilliant scientific minds, Joules was told, his parents pursued avenues and produced results that were unsurpassed by all others.

James Prescott's advancements in the field of Genetic Mutations were unprecedented. As Joules understood, his father was on the verge of inventing a vaccine to prevent the effects of radiological damage to human cells. James believed that by somehow doubling the dual helical structure of a mammal's DNA, that mammal would be rendered immune to almost any known or engineered pathogen – including the mutating effects of radiation.

But all that had changed the night they destroyed the lab.

In a vault that worshipped scientific discovery, there was no greater sin than the willful destruction of knowledge. Being raised in the Church of Scientology, no one understood this better than Joules. When his parents chose to destroy the research lab, they chose to destroy everything that the inhabitants of Vault 101 stood for.

As such, the Overseer had made sure those crimes against the vault were dealt with swiftly. The Prescotts were tried posthumously for treason, and Joules had been forced to sit through it all. He'd sat through the harsh testimonies of character witnesses, vivid recounts from eye witnesses, even security footage from the night of the treasonous act.

That had been the hardest on the young boy. When he learned what was happening, The Overseer had ordered the lab flooded with radiation in an attempt to preserve some of the research before James could destroy it all. That image of his father, pounding on the laboratory window as an invisible death engulfed him was one Joules could never erase from his memories.

Memories haunted him the most. Joules loved the memories of his parents dearly, but a part of him hated them as well. He hated his parents for abandoning him. He hated them for dying. But most of all, he hated them for turning their backs on science, turning traitor and destroying all their research. He had struggled for years with forgiveness, but had been unable to come to terms with the emotion.

But now, what if things really were not as they seemed? He had never truly trusted Overseer Almodovar. He had never truly felt as if he belonged. It had been difficult for him to trust anyone – Thetan Cruz and Amata being his only confidants. What if his parents had been acting for some greater good? What if his mother were somehow still alive…?

Tears welled in his eyes as his emotions continued to race…

His vision was so blurred that, at first, he didn't notice Amata enter the room. She approached him slowly, reading from his body language that something was wrong. Silently she sat down next to him, her bare shoulder slightly brushing against his. She just sat there quietly – waiting…

It never ceased to amaze him, her innate ability to say or do just the right thing to comfort him. It hadn't changed since they were children. They both had known what it was like to lose parents. The loss of her mother had been tragic. The loss of his parents no less so… or so he had thought for almost fifteen years…

But now – now nothing made sense. The world as he thought he knew it was shattered – just as it had been so long ago when he was awakened in the middle of the night by Thetan Cruz to begin his new life as an orphan and a ward of the church.

Now, as then, he didn't know what to believe. He didn't know who to trust. He had no one. No one except the beautiful woman sitting next to him and an old priest who owed him some answers…

"Happy Birthday..?" Amata offered after a few more silent seconds.

Joules chuckled; amazed that he was even capable of the action. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand then turned toward her slightly.

"You're the second person who's said that to me tonight," he managed, his voice still thick with emotion.

"Oh?" She arched an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued.

He intended to reply, but for a brief instant felt conflicted. In one moment he thought he would tell her everything – recount the entire video message in excruciating detail. But the next moment he was hearing his mother's voice telling him to trust no one, especially the Overseer!

Yet, Amata was not her father. She was Joules' oldest and dearest friend, his constant companion, his lover. He refused to allow this message to make him paranoid. He vowed then and there to tell her in his own time; but, he didn't want to discuss it with her now. He needed a few days to process it all. Maybe he would tell her after the Sublimation.

"So, where's my cake?" He asked, playfully nudging her shoulder with his.

She hesitated a moment. He could tell she was gauging whether to press him for information or give him his space. He trusted her to make the right decision, and saw by the sudden change in her demeanor that she had…

"A party at midnight?" she smiled warmly, "What will the neighbors think…?"

* * *

- Archthetan Mack -

Today was the Sublimation, the most crucial day of the year for Archthetan Allen Mack and the Church of Scientology. September was a bitter-sweet month for the Archthetan. All his preparations, every service and ceremony culminated on this, the 273rd day of the year.

The Saint Kelvin's Cathedral was the largest structure in the vault, rivaled only by the Vault Ball Arena. Its gigantic pillars rose over two stories to support the ornate and intricately detailed ceilings. From the east-end entrance to the west-end ambulatory, The Cathedral easily spanned the length of nearly two vault ball courts.

Massive wooden doors at the east led to the nave. The nave was the largest section of The Cathedral, huge enough to house five thousand people – the entire vault population. And just beyond the nave, another large area housed the choir.

Yet, nothing compared to the chevet at The Cathedral's west end. The chevet, or headpiece, was the crown of The Cathedral. This breathtaking structure consisted of three areas: a central apse, an ambulatory, and a group of smaller chapels.

The central apse was a massive semi-circular structure that towered above the termination of the choir. It housed a ceremonial brazier and a raised altar flanked by gigantic stained-glass panels that arced upward to a magnificently vaulted half-dome.

The monolith of the central apse was surrounded by a set of illustrious chapels that radiated outward from a semi-circular passageway known as the ambulatory. Each chapel was dedicated to a legendary scientist or scientific discovery, and the stained glass within these chapels was just as masterfully crafted as the glass surrounding the central apse.

The chapels, the apse, the very Cathedral itself were a shrine to such discovery. The canons of the Church of Scientology, as its name suggested, professed scientific discovery and the attainment of knowledge as the key to enlightenment and transcendence.

In fact, today's ceremony, The Sublimation, was the celebration of that very transition and transformation. It represented the purification and exaltation of matter by its redirection. It signified the elevation of one's mind and body to a higher level through knowledge to achieve the Absolute Truth and attain equilibrium with the Universe.

For Archthetan Mack, The Sublimation was his greatest opportunity to stand before the inhabitants of Vault 101 and remind them that it was he, not Overseer Almodovar, who would deliver them to glory. As such, he intended to leave nothing to chance.

Yet, of all the facets of the celebration to ensure, none were more important than those involving the Holy Trinity of St. Kelvin. This day marked the day that all three phases of existence – solid, liquid, and gas – coexisted in Spiritualdynamic Equilibrium. On this day, one could achieve spiritual sublimation and transition directly into a state of equilibrium with the Universe.

With Holy Trinity preparations in mind, the Archthetan checked with Thetan Cruz on the bread and wine. Bread represented the body, which represented one's solid phase in the physical world. Allen expected their biggest attendance to date, and he didn't intend to run out of bread in the midst of the ceremony.

Wine was just as important as it represented blood, the liquid phase. Thetan Cruz had stocked nearly double the wine from the preceding year. The elder Thetan was dependable, and Allen was relieved to have him managing the preparations.

Finally, the Archthetan took one last survey of the majestic central apse, carefully inspecting the raised altar and the massive brazier that would house the ceremonial conflagration. The smoke that would emanate from this brazier represented the final, gaseous phase of the trinity. Smoke was a symbol of one's aura, the very essence of their soul. As the smoke rose toward the heavens, so to would an enlightened consciousness rise toward the Universe.

Also the flames that would emanate from the brazier were no less important. Fire provided a light in the darkness. It was a symbol of a burning desire to reveal truth and dispel the darkness of ignorance. The Archthetan would cast several oblations into those flames throughout the course of his sermon. Oblations were merely offerings to the Universe. They were generally a mixture of chemicals, carefully selected to induce a variety of reactions from the fire.

Fire played a pivotal role. It represented purification. The Sacred Fire produced by the Great War purged the world of the wicked. Those on the surface were considered Oblations to the Universe – offerings in sacrifice to absolve the sins of all mankind. Their sacrifice was indeed great, and would be honored today. Archthetan Mack intended to honor it with grandeur.

He checked his Pip-Boy, surprised at the time. The ceremony would begin in two hours. Allen took one final moment to admire the grandeur of St. Kelvin's, and then hurried off to his rectory to make his final preparations.

* * *

"Spiritual Entropy!" Archthetan Mack shouted as he stood before the elaborate brazier now belching flames five feet high, their flickering light dancing ominously with the gigantic glass mushroom cloud that rose behind him. Above his head he held a crystal challis, the liquid oblation inside concocted to produce even more smoke and flame. Before him, in rapt attention, stood nearly the entire population of Vault 101.

"Call it irreversibility. Call it the Arrow of Time. Call it what you will, but know this Universal Truth: as things evolve those things get messier!" Theatrically he allowed some of the liquid in the goblet to slosh over the edges.

"Disorder rises! Entropy increases! Examine the world around you and observe the facts."

He paused a moment, then cast the liquid into the flames.

"Heat flows from hot to cold, not the other way around," he continued as plumes of smoke billowed up from the flames and encased him like a shroud.

"Fluids mix, never unmix." He cast the challis to the base of the altar where it bursts across the floor. "Shattered pieces of crystal don't reassemble into a vessel. Our bodies – alas, our very spirits – they always grow older, never younger!" He thrust his hands into the air, holding the pose as the congregation erupted in agreement. Then, as their voices died down he added, "And your souls, my children, they are no different."

The hush continued and he allowed his audience to marinate in his message for several silent seconds. Then he surged on with his sermon once again. "These are the Laws of Spiritualdynamics – they are truth undeniable!" he cried, stoking the flames of their fervent frenzy.

"The soul," he roared, drawing their attention back to him, away from the conflagration. "Does not The First Law speak of that energy needed to create a system, that energy internal to us all, that energy that the world threatens to drain from us every day?

"That's right, my children, we are talking about the Dissipation of the Soul! The Second Law warns us that the world is wrought with evil, and evil wants to bring us down to its level. Evil wants to drain our internal energy, sap our very souls, and siphon our righteousness until we have attained equilibrium with evil. And what do we call that chaos, that evil disorder..?"

"Spiritual Entropy!" the congregation recited in unison!

"Spiritual Entropy!" The fire erupted as he pitched a pocketful of salts into its flames. "That measure of how much disorder has pervaded one's soul, how close to equilibrium one is with the darkness and chaos that surrounds us all! It is true, my children, that we are all sinners. It is inherent in our nature to evolve towards such evil equilibrium – toward a state of maximum Spiritual Entropy"

"But, fear not children, for I stand before you today to tell you Spiritual Entropy is reversible, and The Third Law is the key! The Third Law states that Spiritual Entropy can be reversed, minimized, in fact, reduced to absolute zero!"

"Amen" the congregation fervently chanted.

"But how do we reach an Absolute Zero of Spiritual Entropy? We must first reach a state of perfect order. We must return our internal energy to its initial state. Only when we reach these initial conditions of spirituality can we achieve equilibrium with the Universal Beginning. We must look to The Zeroth Law of Spiritualdynamics!"

"Zeroth Law," they chanted.

"My children, the Universal Beginning is the initial state of all creation. It is the Alpha and the Omega. As such, The Universal Beginning is in a state of equilibrium with Absolute Truth."

"Absolute Truth," they chanted.

"To reach your initial state, to regain your perfect order, you too must achieve a state of equilibrium with Absolute Truth.

"Too many of us live with disillusion and denial. Too many of us fail to see the facts of life as they are, to see ourselves as we are, and to conduct ourselves in harmony with these realities. This state of denial, this failure to discover the facts that exist in the natural world around us, this ignorance is the prime cause of our self-inflicted suffering, the obstruction to our self-awareness and happiness. For it is ignorance that is the chief cause of the sufferings we impose on ourselves and others!

"In order to attain wisdom we must understand the nature of things. We must relentlessly pursue knowledge. We must adopt a scientific approach to understanding the causal relationships between the various phenomena of the Universe. We must liberate ourselves from ignorance. We must liberate ourselves from delusion. We must seek the path of knowledge, the path of awakening, the path of enlightenment!

"Then children, only then will we achieve equilibrium within ourselves, with Absolute Truth, and with the Universe!"

"Amen" came the thunderous response.

* * *

As he had done so many times growing up, Joules strolled among the radiating chapels of the ambulatory. The history of the pre-war world consumed him in a riot of color. The grandeur of the stained glass back-lit with artificial sunlight created an iridescent calliope that drown-out the outside world and all the struggles that came with it.

Joules had always enjoyed a strange serenity in the eye of this surrealistic storm or brilliant hues. The Cathedral was his sanctuary, a place of safety and wonder, a marvel of mankind's ingenuity and creativity, and a symbol of hope for a human race that far too often seemed bent on its own destruction.

The legends of that human race were captured with painstaking detail and magnificent splendor in the elaborate stained-glass panes of The Cathedral's chapels. Each radiating chapel depicted a different legend of the past. Each glorious display was a testament to the beauty that mankind could create when truly inspired.

Yet, the story of humankind was written in its own blood, and the sheer magnificence of the stained-glass murals belied the gory past contained in their frames. This was no mere coincidence. As the Thetans had told Joules on many occasions, there was no shame in those windows. Humans were imperfect creatures and prone to irrational behavior fueled by base instincts and emotional outbursts. But the Universe, with its infinite wisdom, had granted mankind the gift of reason; and through the miracle of science and the rigor of scientific methodology, the human race could one day achieve the enlightenment of rational behavior.

These themes, of course, were central to the vault religion of Scientology, and were repeated again and again throughout the chapel displays. When mankind was irrational, universal wrath was severe.

Nowhere was this more evident than within the awe-inspiring scenes of the central apse. Joules generally started his pensive strolls on the south end of the ambulatory at the Chapel of Madame Curie, worked his way north to the Chapel of Albert Einstein, then wrapped around to finally stand in the central apse, literally saving the best for last.

The monstrous monolith of stainless steel and stained glass, known as _The Purge_, rose nearly thirty feet above the high altar at the base of the apse. The sections of glass were segmented into various scenes depicting the lore of atomic development. The Manhattan Project stood six feet tall, complete with Oppenheimer, Bohr, Szilard, Fermi, and a whole host of other legendary visionaries. Fat Man and Little Boy decimated the cities of Japan. Craters in the desert depicted Project Trinity, underscored by the caption: "so death doth touch the resurrection." In the Bikini Atolls, Able and Baker launched naval vessels skyward on a plume of sea water in response to Operation Crossroads. Higher and higher the visage swirled and coalesced, culminating at its peak in the full bloom of a mushroom cloud.

The ominous hues of reds, purples, violets, grays, and royal blues radiated from _The Purge_, making everything in the apse appear bruised. The monstrous mushroom cloud hung like the pall of death over the mythical geniuses and their creations, expanding as it rose towards the vaulted dome of the apse. The cloud darkened as it rose, finally blending into the blackness of the starry Universe that encompassed the dome. The infusion of cloud and space exemplified the dichotomy of man – talent for creation and a penchant for destruction. And above it all, etched amongst the starry Universe were Oppenheimer's famous words: "I am become Death, destroyer of worlds!"

_The Purge_, more than any other panel, always made Joules reflect upon his parents. Had they become death? Had they helped destroy the world or save it when they chose to destroy the laboratory?

He knew how the scientists of the vault would answer those questions. Joules was the product of traitors, a label he had worn for fifteen years. The Prescotts were traitors. Traitors to the vault. Traitors to science. Traitors to the very doctrine that the church held dear.

Joules had hated them most of all for that – for turning their backs on the pursuit of knowledge. For turning their backs on him with no explanation. They had stolen his ability to pursue that knowledge, to ask them why, and to learn the answers to the questions that would plague him for the rest of his life.

But suddenly he had a chance to find those answers – perhaps even find one of them alive. He couldn't deny himself the pursuit of that knowledge could he..?

"He was very conflicted."

Joules didn't need to turn to identify the speaker. He recognized the voice of Thetan Cruz – the man who had helped raise him since he was ten years old.

Despite his age, the elderly Thetan's dark skin still appeared youthfully smooth. Laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and some greying at the temples and beard were the only indicators that he was getting on in years. But Cruz was an old soul, and his boundless patience and poignant wisdom made him seem ancient.

The wizened priest startled Joules when he spoke, but it was the question, not the sound that startled the young man the most. It always seemed as though the Thetan were reading his mind, or more accurately, as though he were challenging it.

This was due, in part, to the old man's habit of ambiguity. Even now, Joules couldn't be sure precisely just _who_ the priest thought was very conflicted.

Certainly Oppenheimer was conflicted, as were all those who helped him unlock the scientific Pandora's Box behind that plume of devastation that towered over them in the apse.

Yet, perhaps the old man was referring to the boy's father, James. Thetan Cruz had known both of Joules' parents very well – probably far better than Joules did himself. The old priest had spent countless hours regaling him with stories of the two. But there was one thing even the Thetan couldn't answer for the boy – _why_.

Why was his father so conflicted? He was just a biologist. Sure he was brilliant, but at the end of the day, he was splitting chromosomes not atoms. His father spent his life finding cures, preventing death, saving lives not destroying them. How could a person be conflicted about that..?

But, of course, there was one more possibility for "who" the Thetan had in mind. Joules was definitely conflicted, and he knew he had been since the day his parents left him in the care of the church. He was conflicted about love, conflicted about trust, even conflicted about the beliefs of the church that raised him. He felt that his relentless thirst for answers caused him to question everything and believe in nothing. No answers were ever complete enough to satisfy the hole left by the one puzzle that he could not solve. And that had left him a lonely, isolated child who was now threatening to grow into a lonely, isolated young man.

Furthermore, he had discussed his mother's message with the Thetan in his chambers before the Sublimation ceremony. Other than Amata, Thetan Cruz was the only person in the vault he trusted with the information. Joules knew that the old priest, more than anyone, would understand his desire to discover the knowledge of his past.

"Is it worth it?" Joules replied in a cryptic fashion of his own. He continued to stare at _The Purge_, unable to look into the eyes of his closest friend.

"Is it worth it to live a full and knowledgeable life if you know it only ends in death?" The Thetan began, his voice taking on the stoic resolve of a seasoned speaker. "Is the pursuit of the Absolute Truth worth attaining if the result is the sublimation of your soul?

"Consider today's ceremony – the fire at the altar. That fire is the spark of knowledge, the pathway to enlightenment. Man learned to create fire. He used it to keep him warm and cook his food. He used it to temper steel and forge weapons. He used it to power engines and fire guns. He used it to produce energy and harness the very power of the Universe!

"The alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end. There is no life without death. There is no creation without destruction. This is the natural order of the Universe.

"Knowledge _is_ fire! What you chose to create or destroy with that knowledge is up to you…"

Thetan Cruz's sermon ended as abruptly as it had started – and it was followed by a long moment of silence. Both men soundlessly gazed upon the grandeur of _The Purge_, both thinking their own private thoughts.

"I have to find the answers…" Joules whispered, finally breaking the pensive silence.

"I know you do, my son." The Thetan replied with a hint of sorrow.

* * *

- Overseer Almodovar -

Alphonse Almodovar was a detail oriented man. This was fortunate considering that, as Overseer of Vault 101, his every waking moment was consumed by details. His grey/white hair and manicured goatee were always meticulously groomed. His vault jumpsuit was tailored to his athletic form, and impeccably embroidered with the gold leafs of office. But most of all, he prided himself on his maintenance of control. He was always in control of his emotions, his career, and his surroundings. Always, that is, except for one unfortunate evening fifteen years ago…

Today, however, he planned to rectify that situation. He couldn't remember the last time he was looking forward to contact from Head Quarters. Alphonse assessed that he would practically have been giddy with excitement – if he were the type of man to get giddy. He was hardly even the type of man to get excited for that matter! Emotions were nothing more than details, and details were made to be managed.

With details in mind, he inventoried his desk a moment before buzzing his secretary, Ellen DeLoria.

Ellen burst into the office, her light brown hair spilling out around the edges of a hastily arranged bun. This detail threatened to unsettle the Overseer's good mood, but he managed to overlook it.

Ms. DeLoria had been an inspired choice to run his office, and he had been through the gamut of secretaries before finding her! His most recent failure had been with Beatrice Armstrong, the scatter-brained daughter of the Vault's lead maintenance technician, Stanley.

Alphonse thought that Beatrice's nature as a servile sycophant would be useful, but her proclivity to reading her co-workers fortunes and gossiping around the purified water cooler proved to be too much of a distraction. Her loyalty was admirable and her unabashed brown-nosing had been unexpectedly enjoyable, but he couldn't tolerate the gossip. His activities were not meant for public dissemination and scrutiny.

After Beatrice, he had considered one of her sisters – either Mary Kendall or Gloria Mack. Neither one appealed to him. Mary was nearly as big a chin-wagger as her sister, and Gloria was married to Archthetan Allen Mack – the overly ambitious leader of the Vault's Church of Scientology.

Mack was more a politician than a priest. His stature as the Archthetan and his prominence in the community made him the second most powerful man in the Vault. It was no secret to Alphonse that Mack's true goal was the Office of the Overseer – but that position was filled, and Alphonse intended to keep it that way. All that being considered, he did not intended to put Allen Mack's wife in a position to spy on him and his office – or give the Archthetan any more clout than he already possessed!

None the less, the Overseer had finally discovered Ms. DeLoria. She had the unique quality of being generally competent while remaining almost blissfully ignorant. Part of that ignorance was due to a less than average intelligence, but the greater part, no doubt, was from the alcohol.

He could hardly blame her. Her alcoholic husband, Merle, had beaten her for years, and was threatening to start in on their son, Butch. Merle worked for Stanley Armstrong in the Vault Maintenance Department, but spent most of his time in the Pleasure Sector drinking away his earnings.

Normally, Alphonse would not have concerned himself with details such as these, but Ms. DeLoria had proven to be too valuable an employee to lose to a fool like Merle. Her total lack of a curious mind meant she never gossiped, never snooped, and, most importantly, never questioned a direction she was given.

Furthermore, Alphonse quickly found her son to be useful as well. Butch was a greasy punk with a chip on his shoulder caused by his father and a lack of intelligence he inherited from his mother. Suffering from feelings of inadequacy and low self-esteem, Butch became a bully and a thug. Despite his ignorance, he turned out to be street-smart and resourceful. He helped form a gang called the Tunnel Snakes that quickly gained a notorious reputation among the Vault dwellers. Publicly the Overseer denounced the Tunnel Snakes, but secretly he used them to perform certain tasks or harass residents in situations where he couldn't use his security force.

So, it was for these reasons that Alphonse arranged for Merle DeLoria to have an "industrial accident" in the Water Purification Plant. Although he never admitted to any involvement, Ellen seemed to realize that she and her son were under Overseer Almodovar's protection.

Since that day, his secretary had become fiercely loyal. It was for just such loyalty and such unquestioning obedience that Alphonse could overlook a detail or two when it came to Ms. DeLoria.

"Your morning drink, Sir," Ellen huffed. She placed the glass down carefully onto the center of the coaster the Overseer kept at the left hand corner of his desk.

"My schedule?" Alphonse asked as he took a sip of the thick green concoction he drank every morning. He, of course, had already mentally reviewed his schedule several times on the way to work. This routine was more to ensure that Ellen knew the schedule before the day got busy. He needed to ensure she had all the details down, and had them down correctly.

"You have a ten hundred meeting with the Sanitary Workers Union Rep," she began. She ticked off the scheduled items as she read, reporting appointments in military time as the Overseer preferred. "A luncheon with the chief pharmaceutical lobbyist at eleven forty five, a meeting at thirteen fifteen with the Science Institute to discuss this year's grant –"

"Let's push the Sanitation Union to ten thirty and the luncheon to twelve hundred," he mused as he mulled over his calendar on the computer screen.

She made the adjustments on her clipboard, and then continued to read through the items. When she finished, the Overseer gave her a curt nod of his head, a sign that she had covered every detail. It was high praise indeed.

"I have a closed door session this morning and I wish not to be disturbed. Hold all my calls, no visitors, no interruptions. Is that clear Ms. DeLoria?"

He raised his eyes to meet her, studying her reaction to this set of orders. As usual, her thin face registered no shred of curiosity at the Overseer's demands. She looked as detached and emotionless as always. Her eyes held no interest other than that which involved recording these requests on her clipboard. In a community that valued scientific discovery and the pursuit of knowledge above all else, Alphonse found Ellen Deloria to be a breath of freshly scrubbed air.

* * *

Alphonse glanced at the clock again. There was still forty two minutes before he was to establish communications with HQ.

Although anxious, he forced himself to finish reading his message traffic and drinking his breakfast before finally locking his office door and accessing his "private office".

He punched in the password on his office terminal and experienced a sudden rush of adrenaline as the pistons hidden beneath his large curved desk slowly pushed it toward the office ceiling. The desk revealed a hidden staircase leading down into the Overseer's personal command and control center.

This multifunctional command center allowed him access to every camera feed the vault had been outfitted with – and a few extras he had had installed. The bulk of vault monitoring was done at the Security Office, but Alphonse liked to know he could "look in" on his population when necessary.

The command center also housed an encrypted terminal on which he stored his most confidential files. This terminal tied directly into the vault's main frame and provided him access to every program and file on the network.

Furthermore, the command center provided him communications both internal and external to the vault. It even contained a passage to a secret sally port that led to the Vault Door.

At present, Alphonse's only concern was the com center. He sat in a large chair before an even larger monitor – his reflection staring back at him in the black screen. He studied himself a moment, picturing himself on the other side of that screen. He pictured himself at Head Quarters, adorned with the aiguillette of the Prime Overseer. He could almost envision the gold, braided cords hanging down from his right shoulder and chest as he gazed into the blank screen. He could envision the medals dangling from the left breast of his jumpsuit, pinned there by the president himself. And most of all, he could envision the other overseer's staring at him from their vaults with envy…

But for now Alphonse would stare at the Prime Overseer from his own vault; Almodovar was a patient man. He would attain the pinnacle of vault leadership and become the Overseer of Overseers, it was only a matter of time. And today, he thought as he adjusted his jumpsuit collar and straightened his hair, he would take one step closer to achieving that goal.

A slight static hum pervaded the room as the Overseer activated his console. His reflection melted into fuzz, then faded to white – an indication that the sender hadn't come on line yet. Alphonse knew it was still a little early to be signing on, but he also knew it was never advisable to keep the Prime waiting.

After several interminable minutes, the screen finally fuzzed again, this time fading into the gaunt, ageless features of Nyhils Lystner, the man known as the Overseer of Overseers.

The Prime Overseer's jumpsuit looked baggy on his cadaverous frame. His pointed chin and angular jawline jutted out of the collar like the blade of a knife. Although he looked old, his deeply lined face looked the same as the day Alphonse had received his communication from HQ that he had been appointed as Overseer of Vault 101.

Nyhils spoke with a cadence that was slow and deliberate, as if his skeleton-thin body couldn't waste its precious energy on excess words. His eyelids even made blinking look like a deliberate act. Everything with the Prime Overseer was timeless and methodical.

His grey eyes, however, burned with an energy that radiated from the screen. From his bald head to his thin shoulders down to his bird-like chest, nothing about the Prime Overseer was remarkable – nothing except those eyes.

"Prime Overseer." Alphonse offered in greeting, accompanying the statement with a slight nod. It was a minimalist approach that he knew Nyhils would appreciate – no words wasted.

"Overseer Almodovar," Nyhils replied, his accompanying nod nearly imperceptible. "Your report?"

"She has finally made contact." Alphonse answered, struggling to keep his voice even. There was no need to say who _she_ was. The Prime Overseer knew exactly who they were discussing. Alphonse could detect the minutest change in the Prime's face. A look of pleasure was it – perhaps the slightest hint of satisfaction?

The two sat for a moment, studying one another through the monitors. Alponse struggled not to appear pleased with himself – and mostly succeeded. Nyhils sat motionless, but Alphonse could see the wheels turning behind those enigmatic grey eyes.

"How?" the Prime finally asked.

"A hidden message on his Pip-Boy. Timer delayed to his twenty fifth birthday."

"Three days ago?" Nyhils seemed agitated by this information.

Alphonse was surprised that the Prime Overseer knew the exact date of the boy's birthday, and had to admit that he was grudgingly impressed by such attention to detail.

"The boy has been cautious. He is making preparations to leave the vault and search for her now that he thinks there is a possibility that she is alive."

"Yes, there is that possibility," Nyhils mused, displeased that forty eight hours had already passed. "Yet, we haven't found a single trace of her existence in fifteen years."

"Well, now we can use the boy to lead us to her"

"Perhaps…" The Prime Overseer didn't seem convinced.

"Sir, who better to send to find her than her own child?" Alphonse had expected there would be the necessity to sell his plan; he was ready. "There may be other messages hidden for him. We searched his Pip-Boy, of course, but you know how talented she was with computers… Besides, if the boy is out there, struggling through the Wasteland looking for her, it may just flush her out of hiding."

The Prime mulled it over, blinking slowly, his craggy features emotionless. He stared off to the left of the monitor, as if the answer would present itself somewhere in the distance. He was clearly weighing the pros and cons of Alphonse's proposal.

"We will need some way to track him," Nyhils mumbled, still deep in thought.

"I'll have my top security officer tail him from the moment he steps into the wasteland." Alphonse offered, proud that he had considered every detail.

"No, I've got a guy," Nyhils replied softly as if thinking aloud as he still considered the options. "But, for insurance, we'll need to plant a tracer beacon in his Pip-Boy."

"Tracer in his Pip-Boy! How do you propose I do that?" Alphonse retorted, then immediately regretted the momentary display of emotion.

"I'm sure you'll think of something, _Overseer_. But we must keep him under constant contact. It certainly wouldn't do to have him disappear into the Wasteland like his mother…"

Alphonse had expected this rebuke, and thus was able to keep his emotions under control when it came. The Prime liked to remind him of his failures, especially his greatest one of all. But that was precisely why today's conversation was so important. Alphonse had to convince the Prime Overseer to accept his plan – he had to redeem himself. And once he did, he would then pursue his goal of stealing Nyhils' job in earnest.

"I'll get it done." Alphonse finally stated.

"Very good, Overseer Almodovar," Nyhils replied. This time the smile on the Prime Overseer's face, all be it slight, was unmistakable. "Very good indeed."

"Thank you sir," Alphonse said as he signed off. He would have preferred to handle the entire operation with his own team, but overall he was pleased that Nyhils agreed to his plan.

As the screen once again faded to black, Overseer Almodovar noticed that he too was wearing a smile.

* * *

- Officer Stevie Mack -

Stevie Mack cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder, listening closely to the information he was currently receiving and quickly scribbling notes in the small notebook he always carried with him. As a rookie on the force, he was eager to make a name for himself, and his copious note taking had proven valuable on more than one occasion. And the notes he was taking at the moment were certain to be especially valuable to his fledgling career.

As usual, Stevie was standing duty in the Vault Monitoring Center, colloquially known as the Fish Bowl. The 'Bowl was a highly secure, windowless room in the back of the security office. The room housed a metal desk covered in an array of knobs, dials, and secure telephones. The knobs and dials controlled a massive bank of monitors that consumed nearly three walls in a semi-circular arc. The images on the screens were fed from every security camera in Vault 101. From the console, Stevie could pan and zoom his way through every public square inch of the vault – as well as a couple that weren't so public…

Most officers considered duty in the 'Bowl a boring, tedious chore to be avoided at all costs. In fact, for almost fifteen years, old man Taylor was practically the only officer that stood the watch. Upon his retirement, that torch had apparently been passed to young Officer Mack.

Early on, Stevie had hated the job like everyone else and his disgruntled attitude threatened to ruin his career before it even began. He often considered discussing the matter with Security Chief Hannon, but Stevie felt uneasy confiding in his boss. In fact, the young man felt uneasy just being around the chief.

Stevie Mack couldn't put his finger on it exactly, but the _vibe_ he got from Chief Hannon didn't feel quite right. The chief always seemed a little too interested in how Stevie was adjusting to the force and how he was getting on with the other officers. Several times he had offered to take the rookie "under his wing" and "show him the ropes".

Maybe, Stevie thought, the chief was looking out for him, but then again, maybe he was just looking…

Regardless, Officer Mack didn't need anyone to look out for him. As it turned out, the Fish Bowl was going to make his career.

Less than a month into his new job, Stevie was summoned to the Office of Overseer Almodovar himself. It was a high honor indeed, and if there was one thing that young Officer Mack desired, it was recognition.

Growing up the son of the beloved Archthetan Mack had not been easy. Living in his father's shadow had left Stevie with issues of profound inadequacy. Both he and his brother had rebelled in true "preacher's son" fashion. Fights at school, petty theft, and chem use had all been a part of the Mack boys' pasts.

Stevie's brother, Wally, was still caught up in that lifestyle. Currently he was the leader of the Tunnel Snakes, a gang of vault thugs that cruised the Pleasure Sector looking for trouble.

While Wally was busy finding trouble, Stevie had found the force. The Vault Security Force offered him the camaraderie and acceptance that he had longed for his whole life.

Their father had been a stoic, self-righteous man of little emotion when he wasn't pontificating on the podium or politicking with the public. Stevie knew that his and his brother's rebellion against authority had deeply wounded their father – deep down Stevie knew that it had been their objective all along.

Stevie's father never _spoke_ to him, he merely _preached_ at him as if he were just another member of the Archthetan's congregation. Yet, Stevie knew his father had been proud of him the day he graduated from the academy as Officer Steven Mack. It was the only time he could ever remember Archthetan Mack congratulating him.

And now the star of Officer Steven Mack was on the rise. Stevie knew his private audience with the Overseer had impressed his father as well. Even though the Archthetan and the Overseer despised one another, being recognized as a hard-charging rookie this early in his career was enough to impress anyone. The fact that the accolade came from the most powerful man in the vault, a man his father detested, somehow made it all the sweeter.

Overseer Almodovar had indeed praised the young man for his excellent work as a rookie. The Overseer had been cordial and gregarious, conversing with the young man on a variety of topics. Some of the Overseer's questions had seemed strange, but Stevie answered enthusiastically. There were questions about his loyalties, his family, and his ambitions as a Vault Security Officer. Overall, the Overseer seemed quite impressed with his answers, and Stevie was pleased.

Then, the interview turned suddenly conspiratorial. While discussing Stevie's duties in the 'Bowl, Overseer Almodovar leaned forward over his desk and began speaking in hushed tones. He asked the young man if he knew why Officer Taylor had spent so many years logging so many hours in the Vault Monitoring Center.

Stevie thought old man Taylor had done it because he wasn't cut out for Sector Patrols any longer, but as it turned out, that hadn't been the reason at all. Overseer Almodovar revealed to Stevie that Officer Taylor had been the Overseer's personal operative. The old officer had been monitoring secret, "personal" cameras and reporting back to the Overseer for years!

Now, with Taylor's departure from the force, Overseer Almodovar confided that he was looking for a new agent, and he thought Officer Steven Mack was his man.

That was the moment that had truly changed the young man's life. Stevie had accepted on the spot, and for the last year and a half he had spent more time in the Fish Bowl than all his fellow officers combined. They all thought he was crazy, but no one was complaining.

Stevie wasn't complaining either. His instructions were simple. He was to monitor the apartment of Joules Prescott, the insignificant orphan who had grown up in Stevie's father's church and graduated school with his brother, Wally. Stevie couldn't understand what made that son-of-a-traitor so interesting to the Overseer, other than the fact that he was dating his daughter, Amata.

That was another thing Stevie couldn't understand. Amata was easily the most beautiful creature in the vault. What she saw in Prescott, a mediocre and meaningless maintenance tech, Stevie couldn't possibly fathom. None the less, a part of him was almost glad that the two were dating. Spying on Prescott meant spying on Amata, and that made a day in the Fish Bowl worth every second.

Since the two practically lived together, Officer Mack had spent countless hours gazing at Amata through the hidden cameras in Prescott's apartment. Visions of her long dark hair, those beautiful green eyes, that athletic, olive-skinned figure with the perfect legs and even more perfect breasts were indelibly etched into Stevie's brain.

Just three nights ago he had watched the two of them have "birthday sex" on Prescott's sofa. Stevie had been mildly annoyed that the traitorous fool had been in the frame, but at least Prescott had managed not to block the camera.

In Stevie's view, spying on Amata was the best duty in the vault. Plus, all the perks that came from being the Overseer's personal informant made the job even better.

Stevie had hit the jackpot, and now, at this very moment he was receiving the tip of a lifetime across the secure telephone lines of the Fish Bowl. With opportunities like this, Stevie thought proudly, he might just overshadow his father after all!

"Who was that?" Chief Hannon asked, entering the Fish Bowl just as Stevie was returning the receiver to its cradle.

"Just a routine call, Chief," the young officer lied. "What's up?"

"I'm just checking in on my star rookie," Hannon replied as he placed a friendly hand on Stevie's shoulder. "Looks like we're the last two left in the office. What's say we knock off and go for a drink? I'd like to hear more about your work for the Overseer."

"Sorry, Chief," Stevie answered quickly, leaning forward for some folders in an attempt to squirm out from under his boss's hand. "I've still got a couple Surveillance Reports to complete before I punch out."

Stevie's response was half true – he did have some paperwork to finish. More importantly, he wasn't about to tell Chief Hannon about his work for the Overseer. Hannon was too by-the-book to tolerate such clandestine operations as Stevie was conducting. And, most of all, Stevie didn't want to send his boss any mixed messages…

Besides, it had been three days since Prescott's birthday. There was probably going to be another round of love making on the monitors tonight, and Stevie didn't intend to miss that – even if his creepy chief was beginning to ruin his mood.

"Such a workaholic," Hannon sighed sadly. "Maybe some other time…"

"Yea, we'll see." Stevie unconvincingly replied.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Security Chief Hannon turned and left the room.

* * *

Security Chief Hannon had been mistaken. Other than the two in the 'Bowl, there was one other officer left in the security office. As Chief Hannon was slinking out of the Fish Bowl, Officer Patrick "Beef" O'Brian was slipping into the Security Locker Room.

Beef took a furtive glance around the room, then stepped inside and locked the door. He was sure the locker room would be empty at this hour, but Officer O'Brian was a cautious man, especially for a junkie.

He took a quick hit of Jet from the inhaler he kept hidden in his Security Jumpsuit's utility belt, and then made his way to the row of lockers.

Beef had been addicted to chems since his school days. As lead batter and captain of his vault ball team, he was always looking for an edge. He started taking Buffout before every workout and soon became the biggest guy on the field.

The exhausting regimen at the Academy and sleepless nights as a rookie on Sector Patrol caused him to switch from Buffout to Jet. Eventually he began combining the two, using the bursts of strength and energy to become the most imposing officer on the force.

Stacking the two chemicals also caused him to suffer bouts of depression and rage. Yet, his sour disposition and outbursts of "Buffmania" merely amplified his reputation as the one officer on the force not to mess with, a reputation that resulted in more arrests than any other officer on the force.

The Pleasure Sector saw a marked decrease in crime when Beef O'Brian walked the beat, and it was for this reason that the brass would look the other way when O'Brian occasionally beat a perp a little more aggressively than was necessary.

For nearly a decade, O'Brian had enjoyed the honor of top cop on the Security Force, but his glory days were waning. The arrival of that little kiss ass, Stevie Mack had especially been cramping Beef's style lately.

O'Brian knew Mack would still be at the office. That little brown-nosing bastard practically lived in the 'Bowl. The young punk was always sucking up to the Chief – probably in more ways than one…

Beef knew the Chief had it bad for that scrawny little rook. Sure, Hannon tried his best to hide his nature. Hell, he even had a wife and son, but O'Brian was no fool. Beef knew an addict when he saw one, and Chief Hannon was addicted to young men.

_Damn fool just needs to get laid,_ Beef thought. There were plenty of places in the Pleasure Sector where a man could purchase the company of another man. O'Brian had certainly busted enough prostitutes down there to know all the hot spots. Gay, straight, young, old – hell, it didn't matter to Beef. He'd throw every asshole in the entire vault in a cell if he could – but not before he gave them all a good beating! Especially that snot-nosed Stevie Mack.

O'Brian took another hit of Jet. He was getting worked up, and he needed to keep himself under control tonight.

He was on a very special mission this evening, and he didn't intend to screw it up. This could be his ticket back to the top of the heap – his chance to prove that he wasn't washed up before he even reached forty. Tonight he would show them all that Patrick O'Brian was a team player. Just like his vault ball days – Beef O'Brian, MVP!

He could almost hear the crowds of his youth roaring in the arena as he deftly picked the lock and swung open the locker door marked with the letters M-A-C-K.

* * *

- Joules Prescott -

Joules paced back and forth across the living room of his apartment, fueled by nervous energy. He was supposed to be packing, but he was finding it hard to focus. In an effort to control his racing thoughts, he reviewed his mental checklist, going over each phase of the plan for the millionth time.

It had been a week since he received the cryptic message from his mother. In that time he and Amata had developed his exit strategy.

Based on his mother's suggestion of a "secret way out of the vault", Amata had done some snooping and discovered the implications to be true. After some digging around on her father's computer, she found a program to open a secret passage to the vault door!

This news had hit Joules hard. On the one hand, it helped verify the validity of his mother's message. If there really was a secret way out, then maybe she really could still be alive. It was a fantasy he had tried to deny himself his whole life. Perhaps now, miraculously, it could be a reality…

On the other hand, it meant he would really have to go through with the crazy notion of leaving the vault. That thought terrified him more than any other. The Overseer assured the public that the wasted world beyond the vault was uninhabitable; and after nearly a century, not a soul had set foot outside the protective shell of Vault 101.

But Joules' mother had warned him not to trust Overseer Almodovar, and if she was right about the secret passage, surely she could be right about the Overseer as well. There were just too many unknowns for Joules to make an informed decision.

But, as he had told Thetan Cruz, he had to find the answers!

Amata seemed to have known that he would chose to leave before Joules did. Sometimes he swore that she knew him better than he knew himself. Although saddened by the thought of their separation, she had been very supportive of his decision and was integral to his plans this evening.

According to his mental checklist, those plans were progressing right on track.

This morning he had gotten his Pip-Boy serviced as Amata had suggested. He had wanted Stanley to take a look at it before his journey, but the sickly technician was out with another migraine so Joules had to have Floyd Lewis check it out instead. Floyd was a decent tech, but he took twice as long as Stanley would to complete the routine maintenance.

Now Joules was taking twice as long to pack as he should. Instead of pacing, he was supposed to be gathering the essentials from his apartment for his departure.

His backpack sat opened on the sofa. So far he had only been to the kitchen to gather up some food. The backpack contained four cans of Pork and Beans, a box of Blamco Mac & Cheese, half a dozen apples, and a canteen full of water. It was a meager stash, but the backpack was already feeling heavy and he still had a lot of packing to do.

He stepped into the bathroom next to raid the first aid box. His first aid box was nearly as bare as the cupboards in his kitchen had been. He scavenged a Med-X and three Stimpaks for the backpack, but that was all.

Back in the living room, Joules decided it was time to address protection in the Wasteland. He started with his bb gun, of course. Then he rummaged through his desk, grabbing a container of 50 bb pellets and his vault ball bat.

He placed these with the backpack and mulled over the weaponry. After considering the pathetic collection a moment, he went back to the kitchen for the biggest knife he could find. It wasn't much, but adding the knife made him feel better.

The last thing he grabbed was his lucky vault ball cap. He hadn't worn it in years, but he was certain that he was going to need all the luck he could get. Besides, vault ball was playing a huge roll in this night's activities.

Tonight was the Super Series in the Vault Ball Arena. It was the biggest sporting event all year, and the reason that he and Amata had chosen tonight to execute their escape plan.

With nearly the entire population at the game, the Vault Security Force would have their hands full. Not to mention, sneaking into the Administration Sector and into the Overseer's quarters unseen would be a lot easier. Hopefully, by the time, the Vault Security Officers realized someone was accessing the vault door, it would be too late.

Lost in thoughts of security officers and vault doors, Joules jumped when the door to his apartment burst open.

"What's with the hat?" Amata asked as she entered the room carrying a large bag and flashing her stunning smile.

Joules felt himself smile back, amazed that just her presence had an immediate calming effect on his nerves. "Didn't you hear?" he joked. "There is a ball game tonight."

"Let's hope it's a sellout," she replied more seriously. "How's the packing coming?" she asked as she took a look at his half empty backpack.

"Great," he replied sheepishly. "There's still plenty of room for you…"

"I see that," she smiled again, deftly sidestepping his implication. "I did bring you a few things to add."

She sat her bag on the sofa and pulled out a small container. "Some of Old Lady Palmer's sweet rolls," she grinned, handing the container to Joules. "For your sweet tooth when you need a treat"

Next she pulled a book from the bag. "and a Grognak the Barbarian comic for those times when your inner warrior needs a boost".

Joules accepted the comic book, embarrassed at how happy it made him that she had thought of it. He had been an avid reader as a child, immersing himself in comic book fantasies to avoid the harsh realities of his situation. He would undoubtedly need a little piece of home while he wandered the waste; and, of course, Amata had realized that as well.

"and a handful of these," she continued, handing him a dozen bobby pins.

"For my bad hair days?" he quipped.

"No, smart ass," she giggled, "to get into places you aren't supposed to get into. That silly ball cap is for bad hair days." She playfully pulled the brim down over his eyes.

Joules realized they were trying to ease their tension with stupid jokes, but he needed the relief. He had spent the last several hours pacing and working himself into a nervous wreck, and at this point humor was as good a crutch as any.

"There is one more thing in here," she said softly, all hints of playful banter gone from her voice. She reached her hand in the bag one last time, and it came out holding the grip of a 10 millimeter pistol!

"Amata!" Joules exclaimed, looking around the room as if a Vault Security SWAT Team was going to come bursting through the door. "Where did you get _that_?"

"Calm down, Joules," she stated harshly, still keeping her voice low, "it's my fathers. I took it from his office this afternoon, after he left for the ball game."

Joules stared at the weapon in her outstretched hand, looked up to meet her eyes a moment, and then returned his gaze to the weapon once again. He had never been this close to an actual gun, and somehow it made all the danger he was about to face seem all too real.

Guns were forbidden in the vault, with the exception of the security force, of course. Even his bb gun was probably pushing the limits of what was and wasn't legal. But carrying a real gun, especially one stolen from the Overseer himself, would make Joules a fugitive. In the eyes of the citizens of the vault, he would finally be claiming his parent's infamous legacy; he too would finally become a traitor!

"Let's face it, Joules," Amata pleaded, "no one really knows what's on the other side of the vault door. Every children's story we've ever been told is full of strange and evil creatures from the Wasteland. If even one of them exists you'll need more than just a bb gun and a ball cap out there – you're not just taking down radroaches!"

He knew she was right – she always was. But he didn't know the first thing about hand guns. The first sign of trouble and he would probably panic and put a round straight into his foot! And what if the enemy were some kind of human? Could he really kill another person – even one as impure and mutated as a Wastelander?

Finally he decided he would worry about that when the time came. In the meantime, it was better to have the pistol and not need it than the other way around. If he was attacked by strange, mutated creatures, he probably _would_ need a lot more than just an old bat and a handful of pellets!

Hesitantly he reached out and took the weapon from Amata. She seemed relieved that he accepted it, relieved that he had at least a little more protection against whatever was waiting for him.

He tucked the gun behind his back into the belt of his jumpsuit, shrugged the backpack on to help conceal it, then kissed Amata for what he hoped would not be the last time…

Finally ready, they both stepped out into the corridor and headed toward the Admin Sector.

* * *

The corridors were quiet; indeed it seemed as if the entire vault were at the arena. Amata and Joules made their way in silence, each lost in their own private thoughts. Joules tried to stay in the moment, knowing that if he thought too far ahead he would lose his nerve. He was concentrating his thoughts solely on each step as it occurred. And the one coming up next was going to be one of the riskiest.

They were currently coming up on the security office. With the majority of the officers patrolling the Pleasure Sector and Vault Ball Arena, Joules hadn't seen any sign of them in the corridors. If there were going to be any around, however, they were bound to be in this sector.

He held his hand up, stopping Amata at a "T" junction in the corridor. Cautiously he peered around the corner, looking south first, then north toward the security office. He could sense Amata approach from behind him to peer over his shoulder. Her proximity comforted him, but filled him with the overwhelming desire to protect her. Somehow the feeling both strengthened and weakened his resolve all at the same time.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then stepped into the passageway and began walking toward the north. He forced his strides to remain casual despite the urge to sprint toward the far end of the corridor.

As they neared the large glass entrance that led to the security office lobby, the lobby door suddenly swung open. A helmeted figure stepped out into the passageway, blocking further passage into the Atrium corridor!

The security officer was clad in full riot gear. He wore the standard head gear and face shield, a black padded vest encasing the bulk of his torso, and jack boots and riot gloves. One of those gloves held a police baton, the other a N99 Security Force issued 10mm pistol!

Instinctively Joules pulled the gun from the back of his belt as he stepped between the officer and Amata. His actions mimicked by his adversary, who raised his 10mm as well, pointing it directly at the middle of Joules' chest.

Despite the obscurity of the Plexiglas visor, Joules thought he recognized the face of his foe. When the officer spoke, Joules knew for certain that he was facing Stevie Mack.

"Going somewhere, _Prescott_?" Mack's whiney voice oozed with disdain and he spat Joules' name out as if it were a profanity.

There was no use lying to the man, Joules had lost the chance of talking his way out of this the moment he pulled the gun. All he could do now was threaten Officer Mack and hope Stevie didn't call his bluff.

"Get out of the way, Mack," Joules growled, trying to sound menacing but not quite pulling it off. In his defense, he was new to this sort of confrontation.

"Not gonna happen, _Prescott_," Mack growled back, a bit more convincingly than his foe. "I always knew it was only a matter of time before you turned traitor – all of us knew it. It's not your fault, just somethin' in that _Prescott_ blood."

"Shut up, Mack!" Joules had meant it as a warning, though it came out more like a threat. He could feel his _Prescott blood_ beginning to boil, and now was definitely not the time for him to lose control of his emotions…

"Or what?" It sounded like Joules wasn't the only one whose blood was beginning to boil.

"Just let us pass, Mack, and no one has to get hurt." Joules had regained some composure to his voice, but it wasn't nearly enough to placate his opponent.

"Oh, someone definitely has to get hurt!" Mack hissed, his voice thick with venom as he adjusted the pistol and pulled the trigger.

The shot that rang out through the corridor was deafening. It reverberated off the steel grey walls, pealing through Joules' mind louder than all the bells at St. Kelvin's combined. The vault swirled around him, colors and images blending into a kaleidoscope of chaos. He dropped the gun and staggered sideways into the wall. The corridor bulkhead and Amata were the only things keeping him on his feet.

She had rushed to him immediately, steadying him as he swirled in a tempest of a nightmare. She was saying something to him, but his ears registered nothing but the ringing aftermath of the gunshot. He shook his head to clear it, trying to shake the images out of his mind.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, her words began to get through.

"Let's go, Joules," she pleaded, "we've got to go!"

He looked down at his chest to inspect the damage and was shocked to discover there was none. Then he looked at the body of Stevie Mack lying motionless on the corridor tiles.

He lay on his back, his arms and legs splayed at strange angles. A large puddle of blood was pooling beneath the mangled gore of what was left of his throat. His chest was motionless with the stillness of death.

"What…" Joules choked, his voice hoarse with shock, "What happened?"

"He tried to shoot you, Joules!" Amata spoke quickly, tears and urgency mixing in her eyes. "His gun misfired or jammed or something… but yours didn't…" She looked away from him a moment, and then asked, "How did you hit him in the neck?"

"I don't know," Joules replied weakly, shamefully. But it was the honest truth. He couldn't reconstruct the moments in his mind. All he remembered was staring down the barrel of Mack's gun and an explosion that shattered reality like glass. "I don't even remember pulling the trigger…"

She nodded, comforting him with an unspoken understanding and acceptance of the incident. There would be time for introspection later. Now there was only time to run.

* * *

They made it to the Office of the Overseer without any further trouble. They knew with each passing second that the odds of someone discovering Officer Mack's body rose exponentially, so they wasted no time accessing the terminal behind the Overseer's curved desk.

Amata typed a string of characters into the keyboard and a moment later a list of private entries appeared on the screen. The entries seemed to pertain to the Overseer's personal observations of the history of the vault and its personnel.

Joules scanned through the titles wishing he had the time to delve into the mind of Overseer Almodovar. Time, however, was not on their side, so Amata quickly highlighted the _Open Overseer's Tunnel_ file and punched the enter key!

They both jumped backward as the Overseer's desk came to life. The desk shook with a mechanical groan, and then it rose toward the ceiling revealing a staircase underneath.

Again Joules was struck by the fact that his mother's message was proving true. Despite his fear of leaving the vault, he felt a surge of excitement welling within him. For the first time since he could remember, the answers he longed for seemed tangible.

The stairs led the two fugitives into a high-tech command center. It was clear that Overseer Almodovar was keeping his population on a short leash. A large monitor in the corner cycled through video surveillance footage of various vault cameras. A bank of terminals on the opposite side was filled with scrolling data from the heart of the vault's main frame. A huge screen in the center of the room rose from what appeared to be a communications center. And, at the farthest end of the room, a small, unmarked hatch sealed what appeared to be a passageway.

No sooner had they set foot in the command center before the vault emergency system began to sound its alarm. Obviously Officer Mack's death was no longer a secret. They had mere minutes now to get to the exit chamber of Vault 101.

Again Joules was struck by a pang of regret that he couldn't spend more time exploring the strange, secretive world of the Overseer. Amid the myriad information to be gleaned from this chamber, Joules was certain that somewhere on those encrypted terminals was the real history of his parents. But that would have to wait for another time.

He and Amata hurried over to the unmarked hatch and activated its control pad. Like a mini vault door, the hatch's network of gears and latches began to reposition, finally releasing the hatch with a grinding sigh.

With no time for second thoughts, Joules plunged into the passageway heading south, then east toward his exodus to the surface. Amata followed closely behind, the sound of their vault boots on the steel grating echoed throughout the tunnel, keeping a steady rhythm with the wailing siren of the emergency alarm.

The tunnel finally ended in a small room with no visible door leading out. Amata rushed ahead of Joules and activated a switch on the far wall the he hadn't noticed upon entering. A panel on the back wall slid upward, disappearing into the overhead and revealing a hidden passage into the entrance chamber.

Joules clambered into the chamber before the panel had even finished sliding up, his sense of urgency nearly at its maximum. Even so, the sight of the enormous blast door stopped him in his tracks.

The gearwheel door consisted of two cog-shaped layers of steel with a thick slab of lead between them. At its center, the Vault 101 blast door was designated with three four foot numbers. Radiating from the center six feet in every direction were steel "spokes" that provided structural reinforcement.

Adjacent to the immense "cog" door sat a free-standing console. Amata hurriedly began manipulating the controls of the Vault Door Control Panel; Joules stood before the massive blast door like a statue.

His mind raced with fear and adrenaline and about a million more emotions he couldn't process. A part of him felt as if he were about to pass the point of no return, but a bigger part of him knew he had already done that when he killed Stevie Mack. Whatever decisions he made from this point on would not change the fact that, in the eyes of the denizens of Vault 101, Joules Prescott was a murderer and a traitor. Soon he would add _fugitive_ to his infamous reputation…

There was no coming back from this, he realized as yet another siren activated and a large, mechanical arm swung down from the ceiling.

After aligning itself, the gigantic piston "plugged" into the center of the blast door and began to spin. The mechanical seals noisily protested as their century-old latches grudgingly gave way. After breaking the seal, the hydraulic arm forced the door out of its pocket. Metal ground against metal as several tons of steel slowly slid inward; its deafening sound even drowning out the sirens.

Amidst the cacophony of noises and flurry of activity, Joules continued to stand motionless before the door. The bombardment of his senses had left him shell shocked. He might have stood there forever – incapable of action, unable to reason, devoid of all emotion – had it not been for the sliver of natural light.

As the haudraulic piston rolled the blast door off to the side, Joules got his first glimpse of sunlight. It was just a thin slice, a tiny ray of waning twilight filtering through the dusty cavern that led to the Wasteland. But to Joules, it was a beacon of hope – a search light that would lead him to the answers he so desired.

And suddenly, the memory of Archthetan Mack, sermonizing before the flickering firelight at the altar, flashed into Joules mind. The Archthetan's words were true. For too long Joules had lived with disillusionment and denial. For too long his ignorance had been the prime cause of his suffering. Joules was tired of being the obstacle to his own happiness; he was sick of standing in his own way.

With the blast door rolling to a stop, and the rush of his epiphany exploding in his mind, Joules charged into a rocky tunnel leading up toward a strange, unnatural light. At the mouth of the vault tunnel, a rickety wooden door was all that stood between him and the waste.

Gathering his resolve, he burst through that wooden door into the dreamlike light of the Wasteland, and he was immediately knocked to the ground.

* * *

**Please let me know what you did or didn't like so that I might improve. All feedback is appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 2

- Reap Littlehorn -

The sinewy figure stood atop a barren hill as the sky darkened with the onset of evening. Grey combat webbing mounted with black armor plates hugged his wiry frame. The mercenary's armor was designed specifically not to impede his agility; and indeed his lithe, cat-like form seemed ready to pounce.

Below him a group of ramshackle buildings sprawled at the bottom of the hill. Once these crumbling, dilapidated shacks housed the village of Calverton; but now, like the mercenary himself, they were empty.

He gazed down at the ruins, his thoughts drifting back to the time when the vacant village was a bustling community of several dozen people. His father had taken care of that, leaving nothing but devastation and chaos.

He pondered the chaotic events that had led to the destruction of that town. Although unique, they were not unlike the chaos that leads to the destruction of all things. The Capital Wasteland itself was a prime example. Somehow he found that thought strangely comforting.

Yet, despite his appreciation of entropy, he knew, especially where humanity was concerned, that events such as these were cyclical. Throughout the history of mankind, empires rose and fell only to be replaced by other empires that followed the same fate. Even now, from his hilltop vantage, he could see several campfires spark to life in the early evening twilight. Already new life had discovered the dead ruins, and as sure as the sun would circle the devastated planet to give rise to another day, the human cycle of nation building and destroying would begin anew.

These thoughts reminded the mercenary of an old adage that his father often said: _"The only sure things in life are death and taxes"._ Well, he thought cynically, even taxes weren't such a sure thing anymore… It seemed to him the only sure things in life were death and the fact that there is no such thing as a "sure thing". Or, as he liked to look at it: _"The only sure things in life are death and chaos"._

With this in mind, his solemn face registered the hint of a sardonic smile as he began to make his way down the hill toward the rotting shell of a former civilization.

* * *

Calverton, however, was not his destination. Truth be told, he hated even being this close to the wasted village. The memories it evoked were a painful reminder of his miserable past. Instead he turned west and headed down a deteriorating set of railroad tracks that led into a horse-shoe canyon that housed a raider stronghold known as Evergreen Mills.

The man noticed the sentry at the edge of the raider camp long before the sentry was aware of the mercenary's approach. The carelessness of the posted guard had amused the man, and he had actually lingered in the shadows at the mouth of the canyon for a while observing the sloppy watch standing.

The sentry was hunkered down behind a hunk of corrugated sheet metal fastened to two barrels filled with debris. The shelter was rudimentary and surely wouldn't prevent the penetration of any large caliber projectiles. Perhaps the outpost would have at least provided mediocre cover and a spot to hide had the raider guard not been smoking a cigarette in the cold evening air. Every time he took a drag, the end of the butt lit up like a beacon in the night as if to say, _"Here is my head, shoot here!"_

From the shadows, the armored man curled his hand into the shape of a gun, pointed his outstretched index finger at the glowing cigarette, and flicked his thumb as if he had fired a shot. Although this amused him, he knew that men this ignorant were too simple to kill for sport. Besides, ignorant men were more useful alive. The mercenary could bend fools like this to his will like marionettes on a string. Yes, he thought, these weak-minded scavengers were merely pawns in a grander game of chess. They would be his butterflies, and with the flapping of their wings he would create a mighty wind to tear asunder the fragile fabric of the post-war, new-world order.

Feeling uncharacteristically high spirited, the man stepped out of the shadows and approached the sentry. He moved remarkably close to the raider guard before he was finally challenged by the unobservant fool.

"One more step and I put a shotgun shell in your skull, asshole!" The guard growled.

The mercenary stopped and observed the sentry for a moment. The guard was kneeling behind the sheet metal, his shotgun resting over the top of the low metal barrier and pointed at the approaching man. The guard's voice had been firm and menacing, but the approaching man could detect the barely perceptible undertones of fear and doubt beneath the bluster. For some reason, the mercenary always seemed to induce a slight undercurrent of terror in those he dealt with, no matter how pleasant he was to these inferior fools. Then again, he did have the white outline of a talon emblazoned on the breastplate of his armor.

Slowly he spread his hands to his side, palms facing the sentry to display his lack of armament. The guard's gun barrel quivered just a hair, but the approaching man knew it was caused more by nervousness than by any intention of pulling the trigger.

"Please inform Ice Pick that Reaper is here to see him," the mercenary replied. His low, resonant voice was almost hypnotic, like the babble of a brook, yet it possessed a commanding authority beneath its trickling, icy waters.

Patiently the mercenary waited for the dull-witted guard to process the information he had just received. Reaper could almost see the man's eyes dim as his brain consumed more of his body's energy to determine the appropriate course of action.

Keeping one hand near the trigger of the shotgun, the guard finally raised the other to his neck, placed a whistle that hung there to his lips, and signaled for assistance.

Reaper continued to wait patiently for several endless minutes until two additional raiders finally made their way to the guard post. Reaper watched their clumsy approach, thinking casually to himself that, had he been armed, he could have easily killed all three buffoons before they even got a shot off.

A sudden hint of concern threatened to mar his cheerful disposition as he observed these men. He certainly hoped this wasn't the best Ice Pick had to offer. Even a mindless army of butterflies had to at least be able to flap their wings and fly. These men were clearly still in the caterpillar stages of development.

* * *

Reaper was escorted through the choke point of the valley entrance. The narrow passage was crowded with the rusted carcasses of rail cars in a tangle of disarray. Above the passage a network of wooden catwalks provided a decent vantage point for sniper fire. The arrangement had its pros and cons, but at least his butterflies were making an effort to fortify their position. It was enough to renew a little of his faith.

The encampment nestled within the valley was a sprawling arrangement of crude, wood-framed shacks sided with sheets of metal. Groups of raiders congregated around trashcan fires and sheltered near the few structures that had partial roofs. Some eyed Reaper with mild curiosity or suspicious eyes as he passed, but most seemed uninterested in the armored visitor. The few that did cast a curious gaze upon the dark figure were quick to look away, left with an unsettling feeling of foreboding in his wake.

The tracks and rail cars split, opening up to a colossal concrete factory building at the west end of the canyon. The dying rays of the setting sun cast a foreboding sheen over the water towers and cinder blocks of the enormous structure. The ominous visage of Evergreen Mills always filled Reaper with an odd sense of pride.

Between the mercenary and the factory was a structure Reaper had never seen before on his previous visits. At the center of the encampment stood a circular pen constructed of chain link, barbed wire, and corrugated metal. Reaper could hear the hum of a nearby generator and knew that the cage was electrified. A quick glance as he passed by told him why.

More chain link pens to the northwest housed several slaves. They huddled together for warmth, shivering in the dirt as the daylight disappeared behind the massive concrete fortress. The slaves meant nothing to the mercenary. The electric cage, however, that was another matter.

A guard post of sandbags and metal stood on a raised slab of concrete on the left end of the entry into the factory's courtyard. The guard eyed the entourage as they passed, but presented no challenge to the group.

The courtyard was strewn with the abandoned detritus of an extinct society. Husks of useless automobiles, tires, trash bins, and barrels cluttered the grounds. Eyes gleamed from concrete alcoves throughout the courtyard. The entire layout made an admirable killing field of crossfire.

Reaper assessed the caterpillars as he was led to Ice Pick's command post inside the building's foundry. There were, counting the guards, perhaps two dozen in all. They were modestly armed with clubs, knives, and small hand guns. Only the perimeter guards, it appeared, had shotguns or rifles. Although they were far from a finely tuned mercenary unit, Reaper did at least detect a certain cohesion among their ranks – a credit to Ice Pick's leadership abilities. It seemed that scavenger anarchy had been replaced by a slight sense of paramilitary order. That order, however, was clearly still in the fragile stages of infancy.

Yet, Ice Pick had done well since assuming leadership of the raider tribe. Reaper, of course, had provided subtle guidance from time to time to ensure that his star pupil stayed the course; but overall, Ice Pick had proven to be extremely capable. The large, personable raider chieftain had managed to consolidate some of the local tribes into a single organization who called themselves the _Sins of Mankind_ – which they often shortened to just the _Sinners_.

Reaper had seen this chain of events many times, but progressions like these were chaotic processes to be sure. Despite following familiar patterns and trajectories, any manner of events could send the future of a fledgling society off on a number of tangents.

Eventually, as this rabble established their hierarchy, they would continue to fortify their position and begin to rebuild their surroundings. Their numbers would increase and they would spread throughout this rotting valley like a virus – like those that had lived and died here before them.

As this tribe of brigands continued to form the semblance of a society, their focus would shift from raiding and scavenging local villages to defending and protecting the interests of their own community. Instead of looting and pillaging neighboring communities they would establish trade and share knowledge with them.

As they prospered, the plague of humanity would spread. Communities would continue to congeal into countries, and countries into nations until the resources of the planet once again became too limited to host the multitudes of parasites.

At this point the scales would once again tip and the charade of civility would evaporate. Nations would revert back to isolationism and warfare. Mankind would again write its history in its own blood. Ironically their struggle for survival would lead to their destruction and the death of their majority.

And then, of course, anarchy would reign supreme and the vicious cycle would inevitably begin anew. And men like Reaper would be there to ensure that mankind once again began its chaotic march of madness.

Reaper knew that men never learned from their history. He knew that no matter how educated or sophisticated the society, humans were doomed to repeat their mistakes. They could fight their neighbors, to be sure, but they could not fight their nature…

* * *

The area inside the entrance of the foundry was a cavernous, rectangular structure supported by massive concrete pillars towering three stories to the ceiling above. The vast foyer was littered with debris and rubble and little else. The perimeter of the barren entryway was lined with small rooms and concrete stairwells. Some of those rooms held mattresses and make-shift sleeping quarters, while others housed several tables, refrigerators, and even the flickering neon of a Nuka-Cola machine. Yet, every room appeared occupied by raider guards in some form or another. It seemed as though Ice Pick's numbers had grown since Reaper had been here last.

The mercenary was led up several flights of stairs to the third floor balcony. He knew Ice Pick preferred the foundry mezzanine over the underground bazaar. Reaper approved of the arrangement. The third story command post kept the raider chieftain separated from the rabble of the bazaar and the exterior encampment, but near enough to keep an eye on his tribe.

Reaper could tell, as he entered the chieftain's chambers, that Ice Pick had prepared for the mercenary's arrival.

The raider chieftain sat behind a large table piled high with food and drink. He sat in an oversized, beat-up office chair as if it were a throne – its raggedy back and headrest barely able to contain Ice Pick's muscular back and shoulders. He had one leg thrown over the arm of the chair and a large goblet of wine in his right hand. He stood as Reaper entered, thrusting his massive arms out to his sides and sloshing wine all over the table.

"Welcome Littlehorn," he roared in a voice thick with enthusiasm that genuinely seemed reflected in his single eye. "Have some food and drink, you look famished! Doesn't that company of yours feed you?"

Reaper forced a thin smile as he considered the raider's greeting. He wasn't certain if his pupil was truly excited to break bread with him, or if the comment had been intended to point out the obvious difference in their sizes. Either way, Reaper knew that he had to establish himself as the one in charge, and the quickest way to throw Ice Pick off balance was to criticize his leadership in front of his subordinates. Reaper didn't relish the thought of undermining the reputation of his prized pawn, but the mercenary needed to secure control of the meeting and ensure Ice Pick understood his place.

"Your guard detail is unacceptably sloppy on the outer perimeter. I could have easily disposed of all of them – even on this empty stomach…" Reaper admonished, patting his thin midsection for effect. "Perhaps they are the ones you should consider feeding."

Several of the guards grunted amusement at the remark, but quickly regained their composure as they noted that their chieftain was not amused.

Ice Pick's good eye clouded for a moment, but he managed to keep his smile intact, even though Reaper thought he could see the corners of that smile quiver ever so slightly.

"Leave us," the large man commanded, obviously wanting to clear the room before his visitor made any more damaging remarks in front of his tribesmen. "We have matters to discuss…"

Ice Pick gestured to a chair across the table as his guards filed out, then returned to his make-shift throne, this time keeping both feet on the floor. He tore a hunk of meat from a large platter, shoved the bulk of it in his mouth, and then pushed the platter toward his visitor.

"Come, Reaper," he mumbled as he chewed, "Dine with me."

"Is it anyone I know?" Reaper replied dryly as he dubiously eyed the platter of meat. Raiders were known for eating all manner of creature in the wasteland, even other humans.

"Littlehorn!" Ice Pick exclaimed with as much shock and outrage as he could manage, "We are not barbarians here…Not cannibals like some other tribes! This is yao guai, a delicacy. And you know that no one cooks it better than Bix the Butcher!"

"yao guai, really…?" Reaper snorted, "I thought it might be deathclaw…?"

Ice Pick's eye darkened as he stared at his visitor silently for a moment. His right eye was missing, replaced with a black leather patch affixed with a strap that encircled his scalp and Mohawk. Occasionally he would adorn the strap with various trinkets, beads, and feathers like some sort of overgrown tribal warrior. Beneath that patch, a jagged scar snaked around his right cheek bone and down to his imposing jaw line.

Even more imposing than the scar, however, was Ice Pick's remaining eye. It always seemed to possess the intensity of two eyes, and it could bore right into you with its steady glare. At present it focused on the mercenary with a mixture of amusement, challenge, and a slight trace of irritation.

Reaper assessed all these emotions to be appropriate for their current exchange; an assessment which helped restore his confidence in the raider chieftain. Still, keeping a deathclaw as a pet in the center of the camp presented inherent dangers that his student hadn't considered.

"So you saw our newest pet?" The raider asked – a note of jovial caution in his voice.

The mercenary remained silent for a long moment, pulling a chunk of meat from the platter. He waved it in the air for effect when he finally replied, "How many of you will your pet eat when it gets free?"

"Ah," Ice Pick stated proudly, "it can't get out to eat any of us. I had Biter hook a generator to his cage."

"And what if the generator breaks down, or runs out of gas in the night, or gets shot by a sniper from the canyon's catwalks? Then how many will it eat?"

Ice Pick took a slug of wine, his good eye never leaving Reaper as he drank. That eye now burned with the full glow of annoyance. The large raider chieftain knew he would be chastised by the mercenary, but he felt that the rebuke had gone on long enough.

"I'll have Boom-Boom rig the cage with explosives. If the power dies, the mines will go off. That should put a dent in its appetite…"

"Very well," Reaper conceded, finally taking a drink of his wine and putting the chunk of meat in his mouth. The meat was actually quite delicious; and truth be told, Reaper was rather ravenous after his long journey. Besides, he needed to keep up his strength.

"I have confidence that you can control your region, Ice Pick." The mercenary conceded when he finished chewing.

Ice Pick seemed placated by the compliment as the fire receded from his eye. A genuine smile suddenly engulfed his face as he changed subjects. "I'm sure you had a long journey my friend. Let me set you up with a warm bed and a warm woman…"

Reaper forced a smile of his own, declining the offer with the shake of his head. He had the sense that Ice Pick was having a little fun at his expense. The chieftain knew full well that Reaper would not accept the offer of a slave girl from the raider brothel. The mercenary had nothing against paying caps for copulation, but his father had taught him that deals turn sour if both parties aren't willing to make the trade.

"Maybe later," Reaper grunted, "As for now I think it is time I see the _other_ creature you have caged up…"

"Of course," Ice Pick beamed, welling up with pride once again. He is in one of Madame Pleasure's cells. I trust you know the way..?"

* * *

An old records room on the south side of the foundry led to a large cave complex known as the bazaar. The floor of the room had caved in creating a passage down into the network of caves that ran beneath the Mill and the surrounding canyon.

The raiders had converted the cavern into a thriving marketplace complete with a bar, lounge, pool tables, shop, and brothel. The center of activity was an enormous stone pillar that supported the bulk of the cavern's expansive ceiling. Amid the multitude of stalactites jutting down from the jagged ceiling were two gigantic fuzzy dice. Strands of utility lights snaked their way across the ceiling as well, their bare bulbs casting a harsh light off the damp cave walls.

Leading to the various establishments were a network of wooden planks. Their outer edges were piled high with sandbag railings and their paths illuminated with free-standing spotlight poles. The first of these establishments was Luna Tic's Bar and Grille.

Luna was a short woman who kept her mousey brown hair cropped short and spikey. She was amiable for a raider and gregarious; she especially liked to dish the dirt on the myriad denizens of the bazaar. She was good at tending bar and taking caps, and she wasn't too bad to look at, but she wasn't the main attraction.

No, the main attraction was the food. For beer and broads, Madame Pleasure's was the place. But for a good meal there was nowhere better than Luna's. She had a secret weapon, and his name was Bix the Butcher. About the only thing Bix loved more than hacking something to death with a cleaver was finding new and creative ways to cook it up afterwards. He was completely psychotic, but a genius in the kitchen.

Never-the-less, Luna Tic's Bar and Grille wasn't Reaper's destination. He headed past Luna's, up to a mezzanine with several pool games in progress, and through the alcove that led to Smiling Jack's Evergreen Emporium.

Smiling Jack was driving a hard bargain with two raiders as Reaper approached the shop though the rocky passage. The mercenary hung back, blending into the cavern's shadows to wait for Jack to finish his business.

If Ice Pick was the brawn of the Evergreen Mills operation, Smiling Jack was definitely the brains. Jack was a master trader and barterer who originally came from Canterbury Commons, the central trade hub of the Capital Wasteland. In his youth he had worked the same routes that Reaper's father once worked. In fact, both men had become relatively good friends, due mainly to their shared dislike of the Common's Mayor, Uncle Roe.

Reaper wasn't sure of all the details that had led to Jack leaving the Commons and ending up at the Mill, but he knew that it was Jack who had brokered the infamous deal between the raiders and Reaper's father so many years ago. Now, however, it was Reaper's job to broker deals with the wily trader, and today's exchange was a big one.

The raiders finally left the emporium, grinning as if they had gotten the better of Jack. Reaper was certain that they hadn't. Smiling Jack had a knack for robbing his customers blind while making them feel good about the deal. Luckily, the mercenary knew most of the master trader's tricks.

"Well if it isn't Reap Littlehorn!" Jack's friendly voice bellowed as he came around the counter to clasp the mercenary's hand in greeting. "You are looking well, my friend – very well indeed!" The bald man's thick, Fu Manchu moustache bunched up at the corners of his broad smile.

As he shook the trader's hand, Reaper realized he was involuntarily returning the smile. This charismatic charm was what made Jack such a dangerous negotiator. With a quick complement and a friendly smile he could completely disarm a customer.

"Tell me," Jack boomed, "how is that rascal of a father of yours? Is he still shacking up with all those women at the scrap yard?"

The mere mention of his father always soured Reaper's disposition. Daniel Littlehorn was one of the most successful merchants in the wasteland, but he had been a failure as a father. Since the tragic death of Reap's mother, his eccentric father had moved his business into the scrap yard outside Canterbury Commons where he lived in seclusion with half a dozen women he called his "secretaries".

Reaper called them gold digging whores!

"Far as I know he is…," Reaper replied with more civility than he felt.

Jack roared with laughter. "He always was a smooth ole' son of a bitch!"

"Yea," Reaper mumbled, "a real son of a bitch… How's that shotgun of yours," the mercenary asked, attempting to steer the subject away from his father.

Jack's sparkling blue eyes lit up even more with the mention of his weapon. Besides negotiations, Jack was a damn good repairman; and there was nothing he loved more than working on his "Terrible Shotgun". Originally a combat shotgun, Jack had spent so much time modifying the large drum magazine and boring out the barrel that the weapon had surely become one of the most devastating scatterguns in the wasteland.

"She's a real ass kicker alright." The master trader smiled proudly as he whipped the gun around from over his shoulder and handed it to Reaper. "I just don't get enough time to beef her up these days. Too much repair work for the clientele."

"Well, too much business is never enough," the mercenary replied, admiring the magnificent shotgun an extra second before handing it back over to Jack. "That's what dear old dad always used to say."

"Speaking of business," Jack said, finally getting down to the heart of their little reunion, "Any troubles on the road from Raven Rock?"

The question seemed benign, but Reaper understood its intent. What Jack really wanted to know was whether the mercenary had brought the agreed upon merchandise.

"It's all there, Jack," Reaper confirmed, "Having the Talon Company Mercs for caravan guards makes the trip pretty uneventful." The mercenary thought it might be a good idea to remind Smiling Jack just who he was dealing with.

"Uneventful is good," Jack replied. He got a wistful look in his eyes, apparently reflecting on his days as a caravan driver. "Uneventful is real good…"

"It's all at the trading post at the mouth of the canyon. The company's watching over it."

"That sounds fine." Jack said, his broad smile returning to indicate they had made it through the first round of the exchange. "Now let's go take a look at what I have for you…"

Jack led them out of the shop and up to an enormous ledge that housed the night club section of Madame Pleasure's strip club and brothel. Several patrons sat on stools at the long bar, but the majority clustered around the small stages scattered throughout the club. Each stage contained a scrawny slave girl and a stripper pole. The girls gyrated as a nondescript soundtrack of electronic music wafted through the bar. Even with the caves natural ventilation, the club was thick with a filmy haze of cigarette smoke and a hint of despair.

On the back side of the club was a ramp formed from another foundry floor cave-in. Two mannequins flanked the ramp, their plastic breasts adorned with flashing red lights. Jack and Reaper passed between them as they headed up to the Madame's office.

Madame Pleasure greeted them from behind a desk at the top of the ramp. Although she was beginning to get along in years, the Madame was still a strikingly beautiful woman. Reaper always thought she seemed slightly out of place – a diamond in the rough raider stronghold.

She wore her hair longer than the average raider, but kept it pulled up in an elegant arrangement of French design. Although she wore the same sexy sleepware as her "girls" wore, on her it seemed almost regal. Beneath the thin fabric her curvaceous body moved with a grace that made the ruined foundry office feel like a palace ballroom.

Even though the mercenary would never pay for one of her slave girls, he would have gladly given a month's worth of caps for an evening with Madame Pleasure.

"Monsieur Littlehorn," she purred in an accent that wasn't exactly French, but still sounded pleasant. "It seems as if one of my cells finally contains something you are interested in."

The mercenary knew she was toying with him, but he could play at her game. "You know I'm saving myself for you, _Madame Pleasure_…" He was half joking and half serious.

"Oh, you _are_ a silver tongued scoundrel," she tittered as a hint of color rose to her cheeks. "But I'm afraid these days I do all my work on a desktop instead of a mattress."

"Then I shall continue to pine for you, Madame," Reaper replied with an exaggerated sigh of regret.

"Come, _mon ami_" she said, "I have something that will cheer you up."

She led the men into the back of the building to what used to be the warehouse section of the foundry. A series of small rooms with cage doors once held the mill's inventory for safe keeping. They now held the wares of human sex trafficking.

The madam kept her girls locked in what she called the "pleasure cells" – some of which were currently in use. Blankets fastened over the bars of the cell doors offered some privacy but did little to mask the obscene noises coming from within.

Reaper grimaced as he passed by a particularly noisy cell. He had no love for humanity; he had killed more people than he could even remember. But he had never had the stomach for the slave trade.

Finally the Madame stopped at the door of one of the smaller cells. There was no blanket in this cell – no bed either for that matter. The cramped cell's only content was a battered figure slumped against the back wall.

The mercenary peered down at the captive through the cell bars. It had been years since one of these men was taken alive, and it had been quite some time since Reaper had seen one in the flesh. _Flesh and bone_, he thought_, just like the rest of us._

Even though the prisoner was a large man, the mercenary could never get over how frail and vulnerable men like him seemed without their power armor. Especially these Knights of the Brotherhood of Steel…

* * *

**Please let me know what you did or didn't like so that I might improve. All feedback is appreciated!**


	4. Chapter 3

- Joules Prescott -

Although he didn't know it, Joules had been rather fortunate.

As a ward of the church and an avid vault baller, Joules had spent a major portion of his time in the two largest areas Vault 101 had to offer. The sheer breadth of Kelvin's Cathedral and the Vault Ball Arena had helped prepare him for a world that wasn't encased in steel and concrete.

But nothing could truly have prepared him to burst through that wooden door! The surface of the Wasteland was a boundless, dimensionless space. A wave of vertigo overcame him and sent him crashing to the rocky terrain.

Lying there he was struck by an entirely new horror – the sky! An avid reader, he had devoured every book the vault had contained, so he knew the word "sky". Yet, he never could have imagined how vast and empty and terrifying it would be.

Again, though he didn't realize it, he had been lucky. He had entered the wasteland at dusk. The darkness of twilight helped reduce the horizon and make the world a little smaller. He had also exited the vault on an overcast evening. The sky that he currently shivered beneath was a blanket of steel grey clouds – not unlike the steel grey of the vault itself.

These fortunate factors did little, however, to assuage his growing terror. A panic was welling within him and with it came a host of irrational fears. Foremost was the fear that if he somehow managed to stand, and could somehow muster the courage to move, he would immediately float off into that vast emptiness above him. Of course he had studied physics and read all about Sir Isaac Newton's Universal Laws of Gravitation, but that knowledge was little comfort in the face of such harsh reality.

The fear was so palpable, so overwhelming that he considered returning to the vault. The fantasy was more than tempting, but he knew, in the end, it was just that – a fantasy. He was now a traitor after all. Just like his parents. Just like so many people said he would become. And worse yet, he was a murderer! The memories of that moment came unbidden to his mind. He tried to close his mind off to them, but it was no use. He could see every detail in vivid playback: the look of surprise on Stevie's face when his gun didn't fire; and, an even greater look of shock when Joules' gun did.

But, the single most indelible memory was the look on the young officer's face when he realized he had been shot. He was surprised, to be sure; but, this time that look of surprise blended with other indications of shock. His eyes, grown wide with wonder, cycled through shades of terror and sadness and a whole range of emotions. Those haunting eyes flickered with the slideshow of a dying lifetime – and then they flickered out…

Joules could never forget that moment, and he could never, ever return to the vault. No matter what legion of terrors awaited him out here in the vast waste, he had to face them – he had no other options.

Despite his unsteadiness, Joules forced himself to his feet and began staggering his way down the rocky terrain. His descent down the jagged slope was painfully slow. He never thought he could miss flat steel grating and metal stairwells so much. By the time he had picked and plodded his way to the bottom he was completely disoriented.

He checked the local mapping function on his Pip-Boy. He was so accustomed to a display full of locations inside the vault that he was astounded to discover the screen completely blank except for a small square labeled Vault 101. He knew the automatic mapping function would update general terrain and elevations as he traveled, but it looked like he was on his own with regard to locations.

The Pip-Boy compass indicated that he had worked his way around to the west side of the rocky bluff, so he decided west was as good a direction as any. What he really needed was shelter. The sky had darkened considerably and the thick clouds choked out the light. He wasn't sure what manner of creature roamed the wasteland in the dark of night, but he wasn't eager to find out. With his imagination running rampant with terrifying thoughts, he switched on his Pip-Boy's flashlight in search of solace from the darkness.

As he picked his way along an ancient roadway, the sky suddenly ignited with a brilliant flash. Moments later an explosion ripped through the evening, causing him to duck for cover in a nearby ditch. He looked about wildly, unable to locate a source of the disturbance.

With his heart racing as quickly as his thoughts, he lay in the ditch briefly frozen with fear. Yet, he knew he had to keep moving, and was just getting back to his feet when a second flash and explosion momentarily lit up the landscape.

In the brief span of stark illumination, he noticed the silhouette of a sizeable structure on the crest of a hill on the horizon. As he pondered the prudence of approaching the area in the dark of night, the sky suddenly let loose a torrent of rainfall.

Suddenly his startled mind finally understood what was happening around him. He felt rather foolish for not grasping his situation it earlier.

He had read about storms, of course, and he knew all the physics behind cold fronts and warm fronts and various weather patterns. Yet, descriptions of thunder and lightning and cloud bursts in text books had, in no way, prepared him for witnessing the raw power of nature in person. Nor had it prepared him to be lost, alone, and drenched to the bone.

No longer concerned with possible danger, he began a sodden, determined trudge toward the building on the horizon.

The establishment consisted of an old barn and several out buildings. He recognized the structure next to the barn as a silo despite its crumbling condition. The barn looked about as broken-down as the silo. He hoped its poor condition would mean that the barn was vacant – Joules was in no mood to encounter a wastelander in his current state.

Despite the rain and his desire to escape it, he approached the structure with caution. He knew that carelessness would be the quickest way to death in the wasteland and, even though he was wet and miserable, he wasn't prepared to die just yet.

As he peered around the edge of the decomposing doorway, Joules was struck by the tainted scents of rotting wood and decay. Smells were another unusual factor of the outside world that he hadn't quite gotten used to. There were plenty of scents in the vault, of course, but every sense and perception seemed heightened since he had entered the wasteland. Even the air smelled strange to him. The thought that it could be radiation terrified him, but he knew that notion wasn't rational. Radiation was a colorless, odorless, invisible killer. Thus, in the end, he blamed it on his nerves.

Entering the structure, however, had a calming effect on those raw nerves. It occurred to him that this was the first time that he had been surrounded by walls since he had left the vault six hours ago, and he almost felt like he could breathe again.

The inside of the ruined structure was a jumble of rusted equipment and fallen debris. The building was slowly caving in on itself, with most of the roof lying among those stone walls that were still standing. The north wall, however, still looked remarkably intact, complete with a second story loft that dangled precariously out over the dirt floor. The area provided a modest shelter from the torrential rain, and appeared to be the driest place to spend the night.

Miserable with cold and weary with tension, Joules decided this would have to do for the evening. He removed his backpack and leaned against the wall. The cold stones sent a chill through his soaking wet vaultsuit and soaked right into his very core. He shivered, wishing he had packed something to make a fire, but knowing it would be a bad idea even if he had. With visions of a warm meal, he opened one of his cans of pork and beans and sullenly forced himself to eat.

He found several burlap bags against the north wall and pulled them over his wet body, using his pack as a pillow. The thunder and lightning continued to rage and he wondered if he would ever get any sleep. He thought of a popular phrase from the vault: _tired enough to sleep through an atomic bomb_. Somehow that phrase had new meaning here in the harsh reality of the wasteland, and he hadn't even been out of the vault for half a day.

Most of all, though, he thought of Amata. He tried to recreate every aspect of her in his mind – tracing a mental path from those gorgeous legs all the way up to those striking green eyes. But it was her smile he missed more than anything else. And, as his mind nestled in the warmth of that smile, he finally drifted off to sleep…

* * *

There was an annoying buzzing in his head as Joules awoke from his fitful rest. At first he thought it might be the hum of artificial light as his groggy mind flashed back to the vault. Yet, as he opened his eyes to the dingy haze of pre-dawn, the misfortunate memories of his situation came flooding back.

Reluctantly he stood, stiff and aching from his nap on the cold dirt floor. His clothes were still damp, but at least the storm outside had passed. He knew about the sun, and hoped its radiant heat would dry him throughout the day.

Again he heard the buzzing, this time catching a glimpse of movement near the barn doorway. He was preparing to investigate when a wad of slime suddenly struck his arm. He felt an explosion of pain as the substance oozed down the sleeve of his vaultsuit. He quickly grabbed his burlap blanket, rubbing at the liquid fire as he madly searched for its source.

Another glob splattered across a wooden beam right next to his head. He spun in the direction it came from, horrified by what he discovered!

An insect the size of his backpack hovered several feet off the dirt floor. The creature's swollen carapace had the greenish-brown hues of sickness and disease. Its small wings fluttered fervently, somehow managing to keep its bloated body off the ground. Two hideous, bulbous eyes focused directly on Joules as the beast spat another blast of goo at the startled vault dweller.

Again Joules felt the searing pain as the slimy projectile burst across his thigh. The pain jarred him into action as his fight or flight instincts kicked in. He drew his bat from the make-shift holster he had rigged to his backpack and dodged another blast as he scurried across the barn floor.

The creature tracked him as he moved, spitting another wad of goo that went wide to the left. The bloated beast seemed to have an endless amount of the caustic substance – a fact that both fascinated and disgusted Joules all at the same time.

He scrambled behind a wooden beam, waited for another burst of spit, then charged the creature.

Years as a vault ball batter had honed his reflexes, and he swatted at the beast as if it were an overgrown ball. Unlike a vault ball, however, the ugly thing was quick to maneuver. It shot upward as he swung, just rising above the arc of his bat.

Unable to check his swing, Joules stumbled to keep his balance. As he did, he felt another burst of pain spread between his shoulder blades. Again he wondered how anything could contain that much spittle!

As he redirected himself toward his attacker, he suddenly felt a strange sense that time had become frozen.

He knew that his parents had done some biomedical/electromechanical experiments with the Pip-Boy. On their own, his mother and father were geniuses in their respective fields; but together, they were truly capable of creating just about anything.

His Pip-Boy, like every Vault 101 resident, had built-in sensors that could detect an increase in the adrenaline of its wearer. Using a series of electrical pulses and biorhythmic control algorithms, the device could actually provide the wearer with a heightened sense of awareness and an exponential increase in reaction time.

His parents had called it the Vault Assisted Targeting System, but had warned that it was very physically draining for the user to employ.

As his Pip-Boy began to regulate the electrical firings of his synapses, his brain started absorbing his surroundings as if time literally stood still.

The frantic flutter of the bloated fly's wings dragged to a stop. Sound dissipated into a strange silence. Dust particles hung in midair on beams of light that stood frozen in place as every aspect of his enemy presented itself for targeting.

In his mind's eye, he went through a series of attacks. A shot to the creature's bloated body, followed by an overhead chop between its globular eyes. It lasted mere moments, but seemed like an eternity before Joules actually launched into physical action.

This time the creature wasn't able to avoid the vault dweller's focused attack. Each movement Joules had envisioned played out in a graceful dance of deadly precision. He struck the beast dead center, spinning as it drifted sideways to deliver the killing stroke right between its eyes.

The action had drained him, and he slumped to the ground as the creature exploded in a burst of blood and gore. Its body landed several feet away, twitching in the dirt before it finally came to a rest.

He was somewhat surprised at the amount of energy the slow-motion attack had required, but he was thankful to his parents for creating such a powerful combat response.

He was also surprised at how effectively he had responded to his first battle with a wasteland adversary. Despite his unsettling vertigo and agoraphobia, he had proven that in the heat of battle, at least, he could hold his own in the wild waste.

Then again, he thought, he had done the equivalent of swatting a fly and it had nearly sapped all his strength. He still had no idea how he would hold up when the Universe really presented him with a challenging foe…

* * *

- Amata Almodovar -

Amata sat with her father and Security Chief Hannon going over Joules Prescott's "escape" for what seemed like the millionth time. She maintained her composure with a practiced skill that she could tell from her father's appearance made him inwardly proud of her, despite his outward expression of stern disapproval for her involvement.

"Tell me again what happened on your way to the Vault Door Control Room?" Chief Hannon asked; his thin black moustache pulled down at the corners in an exasperated frown. They had been through this line of questioning several times, but protocol required multiple recitations of the report for the files.

"Officer Mack was waiting for us in the Atrium corridor outside the Security Room, his gun drawn as if he were expecting something…" She knew Mack would be there, of course, because it was she who had warned him of the escape plan and told him where to wait. That position put him directly in view of the corridor's security cameras.

Mack was arrogant and ambitious, the kind of man she could have utilized if he weren't already her father's puppet; but he was, and that made him expendable. Officer Mack had spent his career keeping tabs on Joules Prescott for the Overseer. It had been difficult for her father to spy on the boy during his years at the church, but became much easier once Joules moved into his own apartment.

Of course, Amata had also been keeping tabs on Joules in her own way, but being his constant companion had unfortunately allowed Mack to keep her under surveillance as well. Even though they weren't aware, Amata knew about every report Mack made to her father.

It wasn't that she blamed her father. She would have considered it a mistake not to have his spies keep track of his only child; and her father rarely made mistakes. But, even so, he did occasionally make the mistake of underestimating her, and Overseer Almodovar wasn't the only one in the vault with spies…

Officer O'Brien wasn't as ambitious as Mack, but he was even more sadistic. His history of aggressive arrests and questionable beatings of civilians in "self-defense" would likely have ended his career long ago if Amata hadn't picked him as her pawn. She had used her influence as Overseer's daughter to help cover up some of O'Brien's more flagrant and violent offenses against those he was sworn to serve and protect, and he owed her big. More importantly, she had also helped cover his chem addiction. He relied on her, and that kept him dependable and loyal.

It had been a simple matter to have O'Brien tamper with Mack's gun. As a fellow officer, he had all the access he needed; not to mention, the two men hated each other – they were probably too much alike. O'Brien certainly wouldn't shed a tear if Mack's gun jammed in a firefight, and Amata liked the idea of forcing her father to find a new spy to keep track of her. Most of all, however, it would force Joules to sever all ties to the vault.

Joules was athletic and competitive, but he lacked that killer instinct that he was so desperately going to require to survive in the wasteland. If he did die out there, possibly their last hope of locating his mother and reclaiming his parent's research would die with him. So, essentially, she had done everyone a favor.

Maybe, she reasoned, if he at least had one kill under his belt, he'd be more prepared to kill again when the situation called for it. Certainly, killing a security officer would prevent any thoughts of his ever returning to the vault. No matter how tough things got in the miserable reality of the wasteland, Jules would remain committed to completing his quest and finding a new home with his mother. As far as Amata was concerned, she had practically guaranteed his success. Instead of questioning her, they should all be thanking her – well, maybe not Officer Mack…

"He pointed that gun at us," she continued, she had rehearsed the lies enough to make them effortless now. "He threatened to shoot us for treason, and he seemed anxious to pull the trigger…

She paused momentarily for effect; she had Chief Hannon's attention, and he was the intended audience for this performance. Based on what her father already knew, the overseer would piece together the events of the escape quickly enough. And there was always the security camera footage to show that she was merely a bystander to the shooting.

"But he didn't," Chief Hanson stated, checking his notes to make sure he had it right. "You say he didn't pull the trigger."

She had to tread lightly here. She knew Mack's blind arrogance would make him try to prevent the escape all by himself. He would tell no one – bring no backup. She also knew his arrogance and hatred for Joules would make him pull that trigger, which was a crucial element to her plan. She needed Mack to pull the trigger – it was the only way to make Joules kill him. Yet, she was fairly certain the camera footage wouldn't betray her risky lie. Mack barely had time to flinch when his gun failed to fire and Joules' didn't. On the grainy footage, it would look like Joules fired first, murdering a security officer in front of a shocked and frightened Amata.

However, she also didn't want them examining Mack's gun too closely. O'Brien was a pro, he would cover his tracks – leave no traces. But, Chief Hannon was a thorough, meticulous man. He was by-the-book on every investigation; and a jammed weapon was sure to raise questions and draw unwanted attention. She didn't want her father thinking she had anything to do with poor Officer Mack's demise…

"It all happened so fast," she replied softly, letting a ripple of grief play across her face. She wanted to seem stoic for her father, but she didn't want to appear callous. After all, a man had been murdered!

She let her eyes soften just a hint as she raised them up to look into Hannon's, "I don't recall seeing Officer Mack fire his gun." She could see in Hannon's eyes that she had him. He believed her. His dark brown eyes had transformed from those of inquisition to those of compassion for a victim.

"I only remember one shot," she whispered quietly in closing, "And it is a sound I will never forget…"

* * *

Amata walked back toward the vault entrance reflecting on the tumultuous events of the last few days. Most of the population of Vault 101 didn't have a clue what those events really involved. Amata's father and Security Chief Hannon had covered up the escape. Officially, Joules Prescott died as a result of an industrial accident. Since all bodies were incinerated in the vault, no one asked questions. No one would miss a vault orphan raised by the church.

Amata realized, much to her surprise, that _she_ would miss him...

She had befriended him fifteen years ago at the request of her father. Even Alphonse Almodovar wasn't able to bug the church. He had been trying for years to enlist one of the Thetans as a spy, but so far he had been unsuccessful.

Yet, as she well knew, her father was a ruthless, resourceful man. Frustrated by all other means, he had used his own daughter to infiltrate the church. As the daughter of the Overseer, after all, a certain amount of charity was expected of Amata. What better than spending time at the orphanage working with the children?

Amata didn't mind, her charity work with the orphans became one of her most valuable endeavors. As it turned out, orphans were somewhat common in the vault. Some parents died due to crime in the Pleasure Sector, and some from industrial accidents, but illness was the primary factor. Due to the recirculated air, illnesses could spread rather quickly in the vault making it difficult for the doctors to contain. Even Amata's mother had died of such circumstances.

Never the less, Amata became the best orphanage patron the church had ever seen. She was a friend to some, a sister to others, and even a motherly figure as she grew older. There wasn't an orphan, young or old, that didn't adore her.

As they grew, leaving the church to join the vault workforce, they stayed in touch. And, when needed, they kept her informed. After fifteen years, Amata had the most elaborate network of spies that had ever existed in the hundred years since the vault was sealed.

But, she had to admit to herself, Joules had been slightly different than the others. He had loved her. She hadn't felt such honest affection from anyone since her mother died when Amata was five. She knew her father loved her in his own way, but Overseer Almodovar was too driven to waste much time on emotion. He did care for her, but he also used her when he needed to. In the end, she was just another weapon in his arsenal. Yet, she didn't hate him for it – she couldn't. His pride in her accomplishments over the years meant more to her than any other emotional support.

She hoped he would still be as proud of her someday when she had to betray him. She loved her father, but he was, after all, just another weapon in her arsenal.

Speaking of which, she had finally reached her destination.

The spot in the corridor looked like any other, but when activated, a pressure plate caused a secret section of wall to slide up into the ceiling. She quickly looked up and down the passage, satisfied herself that she was alone, and then activated the hidden doorway.

As she entered the secret chamber the wall replaced itself behind her. The chamber looked similar to the Overseer's hidden command and control center. This chamber also had vault monitoring and external communications capabilities. Its best feature, however, was the fact that she was the only one in the vault that knew it existed.

Before his "accident", Merle DeLoria liked to frequent the brothels in the Pleasure Sector. Many of her former orphan girls worked the sector and they always let her know when the pillow talk got interesting. On one such evening, after drinking himself blind, Merle let it slip that he was on "a secret mission" and was much more important than "that Almodovar bastard".

Amata had followed the worthless drunk for weeks until, one evening, he finally led her to this secret room. Being caught, especially by the Overseer's daughter, had terrified him. He confessed everything to her, and it was a confession that blew her mind.

Amata learned that the Vault-Tek Corporation, the company that designed and built the vaults, had never completely trusted the government. As a little insurance policy, the company installed a hidden chamber in every vault that the government knew nothing about. They also arranged for one of their own corporate spies to join the population of each vault and periodically report out to their headquarters, a place known only as Vault Zero.

After his father died, Merle had become that spy. And after the untimely death of Merle, Amata had become the only member of Vault 101 that new the company secret. And now that Jules was finally out of the vault, she would help the corporation uncover the secrets to his past as well.

As she sat at the console and began making the connections to headquarters, she couldn't keep from smiling.

* * *

**Please let me know what you did or didn't like so that I might improve. All feedback is appreciated!**


	5. Chapter 4

- Specialist Bowser -

The man sat in the wagon, chained to a metal ring fastened to the floorboards. His dark skin blended into the shadows of the evening, leaving only the whites of his eyes to reflect the distant firelight. Despite his beaten and battered condition, those eyes still held the resolve of a warrior. They were currently focused on the Talon Company merc that was approaching.

The Brotherhood Outcast still couldn't believe that he had ended up as a prisoner to the Talon Company. He had been patrolling the perimeter of Fort Independence when encountered by a sudden raider ambush from the east.

They had conducted a remarkably coordinated attack coming from the rubble of the broken highway as several snipers laid down cover fire from the overpass at the front of the fort.

The specialist had attempted to fend them off from behind a barricade of sandbags and rubble, but he was overwhelmed by their numbers. As trained, his brethren fell back to a more defensible position behind the perimeter fences leaving Bowser to hold off the intruders as long as possible. Although he had performed admirably, he was no match for the sheer amount of raiders pouring out of their base in the Fairfax Ruins. But he had stood his ground, alone and unafraid.

Bowser wasn't afraid of the approaching mercenary either. The Talon mercs had already tried to beat some information out of him, but he had refused to give them anything other than his name, rank, and serial number – all this information was etched onto his power armor anyway. The thought made him suddenly wonder what had become of that armor. It was a good suit; he had made the modifications to it himself.

Specialist Bowser was the lead Outcast scientist in the field of power armor. For the past decade he had conducted extensive research on the Mk II, an advanced version of power armor. After salvaging one from a dead Enclave soldier, Bowser had dedicated his studies to reverse engineering the suit, as it held slight advantages over the T-45d power armor of the Brotherhood. Its servo actuator design was more advanced providing less hindrance to the wearer's movement and agility. Various electronic and mechanical subsystems had been encased within the armor making it more damage resistant. The Enclave MkII armor still had efficiency issues, burning through its microfusion cells just as quickly as the T-45d, and heat dissipation was still a problem. But overall, when it came to armor, the Enclave had the advantage.

Another big advantage the Enclave had over the Brotherhood was their resources. Specialist Bowser was forced to make due with scavenged components and scrap material in the basement laboratory at Fort Independence. He could only imagine what kind of factory grade cutting edge technology was available to the teams of scientists employed by the Enclave. As always, these thoughts made his blood boil!

The merc that approached him now, the one they called Reaper, didn't appear much happier. This man seemed different to Bowser than the typical Talon terrorist. The mercenary seemed more educated than most, and somehow more frightening. The combination was fascinating, and Bowser couldn't help but wonder what went on beneath the mercenary's cold, dark eyes.

Striding up to the Brahmin cart, the tall, dark mercenary looked down at Bowser, idly rubbing his bearded chin in consideration. Strangely, Bowser thought, he detected a hint of curiosity in those complex eyes. The look made the Outcast knight's interest in the merc even more compelling. Even in his deadly predicament, Bowser couldn't suppress his inquisitive nature.

"We're not so different, you and I," the man named Reaper said to him.

Bowser cast his brown eyes upon his captor, remaining stubbornly silent despite his curiosity.

The merc seemed unsettled and oddly conspiratorial as if he wished to confide in his prisoner. Bowser was no stranger to conspiracy. The knights of the Brotherhood of Steel had reached mythological status among the wastelanders. The secret society was the source of endless speculation and the culprit of every conspiracy theory from Evergreen Mills to Canterbury Commons. Being a Brotherhood Outcast made the speculation even worse.

"I know you don't give a shit about these wasteland fools. It's all about the technology for you…"

Bowser knew this was the common perception of the Brotherhood Outcasts, but he didn't know where the mercenary was going with his strange remarks.

"I don't care about them either." Reaper confessed. "I just want to help them reach their destiny."

Bowser couldn't imagine what a Talon Company mercenary thought mankind's destiny could possibly be. He was certain it wasn't the same as what the Outcasts knew it to be.

"They're not ready for their own destiny." Specialist Bowser murmured quietly, finally breaking his silence.

The mercenary looked momentarily surprised by the response. Whether he was surprised by the content of the acknowledgement or simply the fact that the knight had spoken at all, Bowser couldn't be sure. But, somehow, the knight felt that this line of questioning had more to do with philosophy than pumping him for Brotherhood secrets. The Outcast was willing to entertain the dialog as long as it stayed that way.

"No," the man replied, brushing his unruly, shoulder-length black hair away from his face, "They are not ready yet. But you think you can protect them from that destiny."

Bowser was genuinely surprised by the mercenary's perceptiveness. The man was indeed much more intelligent than the average cut throat. It occurred to the knight that he had better tread lightly through this conversation.

"I believe it is my duty to protect them from themselves," he replied, trying to gauge his response in Reaper's eyes.

"And you believe that you can prevent the inevitable..?" The mercenary asked.

"I believe that technology is a blessing when placed in the proper hands. It is true that mankind discovered a means of destruction it was not prepared to govern. The raw power of man's ingenuity, when mixed with his immature nature, has only one logical end – full scale devastation. But, given time, man will mature. Power and greed will be replaced by compassion and fellowship. Technology will be revered as the catalyst of progress and civility instead of degraded as the vehicle for annihilation."

"And then we all hold hands and skip about in a circle singing Kumbaya..?" The mercenary spat in disgust.

"Of course not," Bowser retorted, "then we will all understand what it means to serve something greater than ourselves."

The mercenary seemed to consider this a moment. Again he rubbed at his beard as his dark eyes grew pensive. He seemed to weigh Bowser's words heavily before he finally replied. "You have more faith in mankind than I do, knight. You view mankind as a child still growing into maturity. I view mankind as an adult, repeating the same mistakes that his ancestors made. Mankind will rebuild. It will acquire ancient technology and techniques despite your best efforts to prevent it. Mankind will continue to pursue power, continue to foster greed, and continue to invent new ways to destroy itself. It's an unpredictable, chaotic cycle; but in the end, it is completely predictable. If there is one thing you can depend on mankind to accomplish, that thing is the architecture of its own destruction..!"

Bowser considered the words and demeanor of the mercenary. The man didn't seem angry – almost the opposite. He seemed quite sorrowful about his belief in the nature of man and his inevitable, cyclical destruction. And even more unsettling was the fact that the Outcast sort of believed him…

* * *

- Reap Littlehorn -

Reaper was standing at the Brahmin cart that contained his fascinating prisoner, contemplating the complete collapse of humanity when he noticed one of his Talon Mercs approaching.

He considered his captive one last time. He was moved by the man's idealism, had even hoped the Brotherhood could be useful to his plans. But, he wasn't sure at this point if he could utilize such a fanatical group of warriors. It would be interesting, he thought, to see how the man stood up under the torture of the Enclave professionals. Maybe the abuses that were in store for him in the Raven Rock dungeons would shake his faith in humanity.

"Reaper," the man called, hurrying over to the mercenary, "there is an Eyebot with an urgent message for you from HQ!"

Despite his annoyance at the interruption, Reaper knew enough not to keep Head Quarters waiting. Regrettably he glanced at the black warrior chained to the wagon, then followed the merc into the main encampment.

The robotic mechanism hovered at the center of the encampment. It was spherical in shape, slightly larger than a human head. It had several long antennas protruding from its top and back, giving it the appearance of an eyeball and its associated nerves. The front of the sphere housed a loudspeaker from which it spewed constant propaganda from President John Henry Eden, self-proclaimed President of the United States.

Other than the speaker, the device contained microphones, video transmission, and even a zapping device for minimal protection. The machines were literally the eyes, ears, and mouthpieces of the Enclave throughout the Capital Wasteland.

The mercenary stepped up to the hovering mechanism and barked a single word into the receiver: "Reaper."

"Report status of captive," the voice replied.

Reaper knew who it was without being told. Nyhils had a distinctive voice and a no-nonsense approach to communication, especially when it wasn't face to face…

"Secure. Somewhat cooperative. Anticipate delivery in 69 hours."

"Very well," Nyhils replied, his voice resonating satisfaction through the Eyebot's speaker. "Have your team bring him in immediately. You, however, I need for a more sensitive assignment."

The mercenary felt both intrigued and annoyed at the request. He had hoped to spend another day or two discussing the manifest destiny of mankind with the Brotherhood Outcast. He felt a shared intellect with the man and had hoped to glean some more insight from his prisoner before he was destroyed in the torture chambers of the Enclave.

None-the-less, he knew Nyhils wouldn't reassign him in mid mission if it weren't important, and he was anxious to learn the details.

"Details?" Reaper asked, speaking into the microphone of the floating reconnaissance and surveillance robot.

"Enter the following frequency into your receiver," Nyhils commanded, rattling off a series of numbers through the Eyebot. "You should pick up the tracking beacon."

Reaper did as instructed, checking his homing mechanism for a signal. The device was top-of-the-line Enclave technology and could track a target for a considerable distance. As he punched in the numbers, he did indeed see a weak signal register at the outer edges of his range.

"I've got it," the mercenary finally acknowledged. "Looks like the target is due east of my position"

"Yes," the Eyebot confirmed, "should be near Vault 101. How soon can you make contact?"

"Day and a half," Reaper said, "two at most."

"Good," Nyhils' voice responded through the loudspeaker. "You are looking for a vault dweller. Male. Twenty five years old. Six foot tall. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Most likely suffering from agoraphobia and moving slowly…"

"Roger," Reaper replied. The thought of encountering a vault dweller was even more exciting than a Brotherhood knight. He hoped he would get a chance to exchange opinions before he terminated the target. "Kill or capture?" he asked, hoping it was the latter.

"Neither," came the unusual response. "You are to track the subject. Don't engage. Protect if necessary, but don't interact. Target should remain oblivious to your presence."

"Understand," the mercenary said, trying not to sound disappointed at the thought of not being able to question the vaultie. "The old 'Mysterious Stranger' mission..?"

"Just follow him. Report where he goes. Report who he makes contact with. Don't let him come to harm. Don't let him out of your sight." Nyhils concluded.

"Roger, wilco, out." Reaper replied, mimicking his employeer's curt speech pattern. The mercenary had barely finished the confirmation before the Eyebot spun a one-eighty and floated out of the encampment spewing a patriotic marching song as it drifted into the wasteland.

Reaper stood in its wake, contemplating the strange assignment. His association with the Enclave had been long and complicated, but in all the years he had worked for the enigmatic Nyhils, he had rarely been asked to bird-dog a target. And never a vault dweller…

- Machete -

Machete stood atop the bluff, looking down at the barricades on a bridge that spanned a deep gulf along the trade route between Arefu and Megaton. She hadn't been out this way in quite a while, but she thought the raider's blockade looked relatively new. She had heard from some of the caravan drivers that the raider activity had picked up on the western routes. The rumor at Porter's Café was that the western raiders had become bolder and better equipped. Where they were getting their supplies was a source of endless speculation among the merchants around the water tower at the Commons.

How they became better equipped made no difference to Machette, she was only concerned with the fact that their strength was growing. The western routes were dangerous enough without the raider tribes causing more trouble.

The morning sun gleamed off her black leather armor as she stood there contemplating the enemy. Her five and a half foot frame, from her neck down to her thick black boots, was entirely clad in her custom leather armor. Her merchant friends, especially Crow, had offered her deals on other armor, but she preferred her leathers most of all. Despite her size, she was quick and agile. The leather didn't restrict her movements or reduce her reaction time like some of the other armor she had tried. Her battle prowess came from her reflexes and speed, and maximizing those abilities was worth a little less damage resistance.

_ They can't hurt me if they can't hit me_ – that was her motto.

Besides she had made a few modifications of her own to the leather outfit. Crazy Wolfgang's scavengers had scrounged up some pads for her from pre-War sporting goods equipment. With the pads and the leather she had constructed what she called a "poor man's combat armor." While not quite as effective as merc armor, it was definitely better than anything the raiders wore.

Besides the armor, she had also customized holsters for all her weapons. Her 10mm pistol was attached to her left hip in a standard leg-wrapped holster that she had modified slightly for a quicker draw. Her right boot doubled as a sheath for her combat knife. Best of all, her machete was housed in a sheath she wore across her back with the weapon's handle protruding up above her shoulder blades enabling her to reach over her head and withdraw the weapon in one fluid motion.

Even the machete itself was one of her own design. Growing up as an orphan in Little Lamplight had taught her how to be resourceful and how to improvise. By the age of seven she had earned the nickname "Machete" after killing a Mole Rat with a knife that was practically as big as she was. However, it wasn't until she got to Canterbury Commons that she began to perfect the art of crafting her own gear.

The current version of her machete was actually a wicked looking blade that she had salvaged from a pre-War machine known as a _lawn mower_. Along the outer edge of the blade she had attached a solid handle of tempered wood. The inner edge she had sharpened and honed until the blade could slice cleanly through any raider armor out there. Usually it would slice through the flesh and bone as well!

All in all, her combat expertise made her the fiercest defender either Little Lamplight or Canterbury Commons had ever seen. That reputation, of course, was the reason Mayor Roe, (who preferred the name "Uncle"), had insisted she accompany this expedition as the caravan guard.

She knew the real reason the Mayor wanted her here. She was really here to guard Uncle Roe's nephew, Derek. What she didn't know was why Derek was here.

She had her theories, however. She knew that Uncle Roe thought his nephew was meek and timid. She guessed that sending Derek on this expedition was the Mayor's way of trying to toughen him up.

She didn't mind babysitting; she was ready for a little adventure. She wasn't happy that it pissed Dominic off so bad, but he was too overprotective of her anyway. He always called her his star pupil, but she knew he really thought of her as a daughter. He treated her like a daughter too, and truth be told, she considered him a father. Despite his protest over the expedition, she knew he'd be proud when she returned to the Commons with the Mayor's son intact.

Accomplishing that feat, however, meant getting across that bridge.

Crazy Wolfgang came up beside her, whistling an old trader ditty as he made his way up the bluff. "Looks like the welcoming committee," the seasoned merchant said cheerfully as he peered out over the rocky ledge at the bridge below.

She squinted up into the late morning sun at the smiling face of her favorite trader. He was a head taller than she was, a mop of tangled brown hair framed his boyish face giving him a youthful appearance despite his many years on the trade routes. He had a friendly smile and was always quick to make a joke. No one found his jokes as amusing as he did, and he loved to laugh. He often even laughed during the heat of a battle, which was the habit that had earned him the nickname "Crazy" Wolfgang. She didn't know what his first name actually was, but she couldn't think of anything more fitting than _Crazy_.

"Welcome to Kaelyn's Bed and Breakfast," he smirked, glancing at the building beside the bridge. "Guests check in, but they don't check out." He added, doing his best impersonation of an evil laugh.

Machete couldn't help but giggle. Crazy Wolfgang playfulness was infectious. She was glad Uncle Roe had selected him for this babysitting gig.

"You think you can _talk_ our way through that gauntlet?" she asked him.

"My dear Machete, I _am_ a Master Trader after all…" he admonished, un-holstering his shotgun to check the chambers and verify he had a round in each. "Besides, I've got two good reasons why they should listen to me," he grinned. He looked her up and down, assessing her armament with a mock scrutiny. "Hell, with you on my side I've got a dozen reasons they should listen," he corrected, howling with actual laughter this time.

Machete merely shook her head in reply as she began making her way back down to the caravan. She hid her smile as she descended the bluff – it wasn't good to encourage Wolfgang too much. Besides, she hadn't even decided if he was really crazy or not…

* * *

The caravan worked its way southward down the crumbling highway, reaching the base of the bridge just as the sun was nearing its zenith in the cloudless sky.

The blockade consisted of a half-circle of piled sandbags just left of center, followed by several mounds of sheet metal and debris. From the hilltop Machete had estimated no more than half a dozen raiders guarding the bridge. She was certain there would be at least one shooter behind the sandbag bunker – probably at least one more behind the barricades. The rest would most likely attack with clubs and knives. Raider groups weren't normally very heavily armed; then again, things could get dicey if the rumors from Porter's Café were true.

A broad, muscular raider stepped out from the right edge of the barricades as the group approached. He was bare-chested, wearing only a Waste-Hound helmet and brown leather pants. He had a hunting knife strapped to his waist, but no other weapons as far as Machete could tell.

A slight breeze kicked up a swirl of dust as she stepped onto the bridge slightly ahead of the others. Cautiously the group approached the blockade, the swirling dust casting an eerie aura over the tableau of the lone raider. Machete got within several feet of the beast before he raised a monstrous muscular arm signaling them to stop.

The girl stood in the center of the roadway, Wolfgang back and to her left, and Derek bringing up the rear with the Brahmin. She hoped the boy was far enough back to keep him out of harm's way. If things went south she would have all she could handle keeping _herself_ safe, much less a timid teenager!

They all stood motionless for a moment – waiting. The wind ruffled Machete's short black hair causing a lock of her bang to drift down into her line of vision. She made no movement to brush it away – she would let the raider decide what move to make next.

Finally the stocky brute lowered his arm and took another step closer to Machete. She appraised him as he approached. He was taller than she was. Not quite as tall as Wolfgang, but he was broader than she and the merchant combined. His massive chest was a mass of dirt and scars and tribal tattoos. He smelled like a horrid mixture of sweat and leather and body odor.

He was close enough that she could hear his ragged breathing beneath the Waste-Hound helmet and she could smell the stink coming off that as well. The brown leather hood covered his entire head and appeared to be fashioned from tanned animal hide – most likely wild dog. The hide hood was crudely sewn together with no distinguishing features except a wild tuft of what looked like human hair sewn to the top. Although there were no allowances for breathing, there appeared to be eye holes at least because the raider wore biker goggles.

Overall, the bizarre head-gear had the strange effect of diminishing the barbarian's head, making it look too small for his muscular frame. He probably thought the mask made him look imposing, but to Machete, it made him seem ridiculous and somehow less threatening.

"What do we have here?" The brute asked in a high, nasally voice muffled from beneath the Waste-Hound hide.

For some reason, the whiney, effeminate voice angered her. She thought, perhaps, it was because she had been looking forward to a formidable foe. Instead, her passage was being blocked by this wimpy-voiced pinhead instead.

"Looks like a sissy in a sack cloth to me," she replied. She could tell right away, by the raider's demeanor and her own, that Wolfgang had no chance of talking them out of this confrontation. The highwaymen had no intention of letting the caravan pass. They were looking for a fight, and Machete intended to give them one.

"You mouthy bitch," the man squealed as he drew his big knife and launched his attack.

Things happened quickly as the bridge erupted in battle. Machete, anticipating his charge, was already pulling her weapon from over her head before the man had even lunged at her. With a downward chopping motion she delivered a blow between the gruesome Waste-Hound helmet and the brute's massive left shoulder. The lawn mower blade split him like a cord of wood and embedded itself deep into the raider's sternum.

The high-pitched keen that emanated from beneath the hound hide sounded more like a dog than a man. The knife fell forgotten from his fingers as he staggered sideways from the devastating blow.

A second raider popped up from behind the sandbag bunker just as Machete had expected. Crazy Wolfgang had anticipated it as well and was prepared to pepper him with shotgun pellets. Unfortunately, Machete and her attacker had stumbled into the trader's line of fire, blocking his shot from the raider gunman.

Machete quickly discovered that her blade was lodged firmly in the brute's chest. She made one futile attempt to wrench it free, then abandoned the idea and drew her gun. She saw the gunman in the bunker drawing a bead on her with what looked like an assault rifle and knew she didn't have time to get a shot off. She also knew Wolfgang didn't have a clear shot either.

Aided by the stumbling brute's momentum, she used the handle of the machete to direct his broad chest between her and the bunker. She barely got her human shield in position before the gunman began firing wildly over the sandbags.

She was surprised that the ruffian had an assault rifle, but she was relying on the fact that he wouldn't know what to do with it. She counted the bursts as the body of the dying brute absorbed the shots. She used the handle of the machete to keep him upright, but his dead weight was beginning to drag her down.

When she was sure the gunman had spent all twenty four rounds, she finally let her human shield crash to the pavement. Before the man could get down below the sandbags she put a 10mm slug in the center of his forehead. The back of his head exploded in a red mist as he dropped the assault rifle and slumped lifelessly over the front rim of the bunker.

She realized too late that more raiders had materialized from behind the barricades. Three were charging toward her with a variety of lead pipes and tire irons. She was attempting to determine the most immediate threat when she heard two shots. The first came from a raider gunman to her right. The second came from Wolfgang's shotgun.

Her right thigh exploded with pain as a 10mm slug tore through her leather pants. The shooter to her right lay dying on the roadway, his entrails sprayed across the corrugated metal barrier behind him. Startled by the impact, Machete dropped her pistol and fought to maintain her balance as she fell to her knees on top of her former human shield.

The first of the three raiders charging toward her was almost within melee range. His eyes were wide beneath his Psycho-Tic helmet as he raised a tire iron and poised to strike. Crazy Wolfgang's second shot caught the wild-eyed raider in mid stride just as he was beginning to take a swing. At such a close range, the force of the blast lifted the man off the ground and propelled him back into the oncoming attackers. Dodging their dead tribesman, the two remaining attackers continued their charge.

Machete knew Wolfgang was reloading, but he wasn't going to make it in time. Her current position gave her better leverage on her machete. With her left boot jammed into the face of the Waste-Hound helmet, she was finally able to wrench her weapon free of the dead raider. Still crouched, she had no time to regain her footing before the closest of the two attackers was upon her. She swung upward from her knees, taking the man's right leg off and sending him sprawling.

Pivoting on her good leg, she spun to her feet, performing a complete three-sixty. The machete built up momentum as she spun, connecting with the remaining raider right below the chin. The female raider's long hair trailed through the air as her severed head bounded over the edge of the bridge.

Machete took half a second to survey for any further aggressors before slumping back to the pavement, exhausted from the effort.

Both Wolfgang and Derek came rushing to her aid. Derek sat a first aid kit down and rummaged through it while Crazy Wolfgang inspected her leg wound. The bullet had gone through and through, and hadn't appeared to hit any major arteries. He cleaned the wound, dressed it with a cocktail of antibacterial cream and coagulating gels, and then gave her a stimpak shot for good measure.

While Wolfgang was working on her, she grabbed the hunting knife from her boot and handed it to Derek.

The boy was visibly shaken. They had dispatched a handful of wasteland creatures on their expedition, but this was the first confrontation they had had with other humans – and by far the bloodiest. Yet, as far as she could tell, this was the reason that Uncle Roe had sent the boy out into the wilds of the western routes. If he was going to become a merchant, he was going to have to learn how to protect his merchandise and himself.

Tentatively he reached out and accepted the knife. He took it from her gingerly as if it were a bottlecap mine about to explode. She thought from the horrified look on his face that he knew what she wanted him to do, but she spelled it out for him just to be sure.

"Finish him." She said, nodding her head toward the raider whose leg she had amputated with her machete.

The raider was currently dragging himself toward the sandbag bunker – a thick trail of blood smeared across the asphalt behind him. He was apparently going for the assault rifle near the dead gunner, but he wasn't going to make it. She knew Wolfgang could take him out with the shotgun at any time, but they were waiting to see how Derek was going to handle the situation.

The eighteen year old approached the raider as if he were a wounded bird with a broken wing. The man spat at him as he saw the boy coming, yelling obscenities in a final act of defiance. The boy crouched down next to the man and whispered something that Machete couldn't make out. She figured it was either an apology, or perhaps a prayer. Either way, the boy was too close to the man, and she shot Wolfgang a look that told him to keep his weapon ready.

A moment later the raider lashed out. He made a grab for the boy's knife, and suddenly the two were both on the ground, grappling for control of the weapon. Both men were screaming – the raider screaming in anger, the young man in fear. Although Derek was weaker than his opponent, he had the advantage of two good legs for leverage. He ended up on top of the wounded man, both hands trying to force the tip of the knife into the nape of the raider's exposed throat.

The raider, however, had both hands on the Derek's wrist, and for a moment it looked as if he was going to overpower the boy and disarm him. The tension caused Wolfgang to raise his gun, but Machete gave him a nod, indicating he should let the battle play out a moment longer.

Panic and anger finally reached a boiling point within the frightened young man. With a howl of madness, Derek drove his boot into the stub of the raider's missing leg, causing the man to emit a howl of his own. The pain was enough to cause the man to lose his grip on the boy's wrists. Without the raider's resistance, the knife came stabbing down into his throat with all Derek's weight behind it.

The man's eyes went wide as they locked onto the boy's. His lips curled back in a snarl of pain and anger, revealing a row of black teeth, but his screaming had stopped. The only sound he made was a disgusting gurgle as his body convulsed in the final throes of death.

Derek remained straddled atop the man's chest, riding out the convulsions like a Regulator on a brahmin drive. Tears streamed down his face as he stared down at the dying man. Although he wanted to more than anything, the boy could not look away.

* * *

**Please let me know what you did or didn't like so that I might improve. All feedback is appreciated!**


	6. Chapter 5

- Joules Prescott -

Joules stood atop a battered overpass as the sun passed its zenith and crawled slowly toward the western horizon through a grey sky strangled with tattered clouds. The overpass, like so many others, was buckled and rent, a result of a war that must have shaken the planet to its very core. This leg of roadway, however, wasn't as damaged as its earlier sections, and it stretched westward fairly dependably into the rolling hills of the cloud stained horizon.

It had been two days since Joules had left the vault, and since that time the landscape had been a desolate, barren wasteland devoid of any signs of humanity either present or past. Rotted fence lines and burnt husks of trees stretched as far as his eyes could see. At one time the area was most likely fertile farmland and grazing pastures. That time, however, had come and gone long ago.

Joules set his pack down and took a long pull of the dirty water from his canteen. He had run out of vault water a day ago and resorted to collecting rainwater. He wouldn't necessarily say he was getting used to the vile liquid, but he could now drink large gulps without gagging and his headaches had diminished to a dull annoyance.

Like his head, the rest of his body was suffering from low-level aches and pains. Lacking any dilapidated buildings or better options, Joules had spent the night beneath a toppled billboard. One of the supports had snapped, causing the other to bend under the weight until the top of the structure had folded to the ground. The result was a makeshift lean-to that provided moderate protection from the evening wind. Fortunately the storms – with their bizarre lightning and booming thunder – had finally subsided for the time being. Even though the ground was still saturated, Joules had stayed reasonably dry beneath the broken billboard. Still, his body ached for the comfort of his cozy bed in the shelter of a warm dry vault. And his heart ached for Amata…

He glanced at his Pip-Boy to check his progress and take his mind off the vault. According to the device, he had only logged a depressing seventeen miles in the forty five hours since he had surfaced. His map reflected a jagged track that ran roughly northwesterly from Vault 101, surrounded in a haze of black fog generated by the instrument's statistical uncertainty. Picking his way along broken roadways, collapsed bridges, and myriad debris had made his progress painfully slow. The fact that his entire body hurt and he had no idea where he was going didn't help matters either.

The thing that slowed him down the most, however, was the multitude of wasteland creatures. The uninhabited farmlands teemed with a variety of beasts, many of which he couldn't even identify. He spent as much time hiding behind rubble as he did climbing over it. More than once he wished he hadn't dropped the gun that Amata had given him.

From his current position at the crest of the overpass, he could see what looked to be a settlement to the distant north bordering on a large body of water. His plan, what little there was of one, had always been to locate a village and start asking questions. If his mother had made it out of the vault, he was sure that somebody would remember seeing her. After all, he knew he certainly stuck out in this strange new world.

The time indication on his Pip-Boy displayed 14:22. He still had time for several hours of travel before he would need to find some form of shelter for the evening. Reluctantly he capped his canteen and was just preparing to gather his things and continue his trek when he was startled by a strange sound.

When he first heard it, Joules thought the low rumbling might be thunder; he was still trying to acclimate himself to that strange phenomenon. As he glanced at the sky, however, he quickly realized the sound was coming from somewhere behind him and much closer to the ground. In an instant the hair on the back of his neck rose as his instincts kicked in and alerted him to the fact that he was not alone on the desolate, battered highway.

He turned as his peripheral vision registered a streak to the left, fumbling with the BB gun strapped to his shoulder. He realized he was too late as the growling streak of matted fur and sharp yellow teeth plowed into his left thigh. The blow knocked him off his feet and he landed hard on his back among the rubble of the ruined roadway. He felt the air rush out of his lungs as he landed on the BB gun, still strapped across his shoulder and back.

Desperately he gasped for breath as he tried to locate his feral attacker through tear-blurred vision. He spotted what appeared to be a large, mangy, wild dog circling a broken chunk of concrete and quickly approaching.

Joules tried to sit up, but his lungs still lacked oxygen and his left leg rippled with agony from the effort. The gun was trapped underneath his back and there was no time to wiggle it free. The yellow teeth were closing in on him much too rapidly!

Frantically Joules flailed his arms about the rubble searching for something to help him defend himself. He looked like a wounded bird trying to fly while lying on its back. The scene might have been comical under different circumstances.

He braced himself for the impact as the razor sharp jaws closed in on him. With seconds to go, his frantic fingers suddenly closed around a strap of his backpack. In his panic, Joules had completely forgotten about setting it down.

With his lungs filling and his strength returning, the former Vault Ball champion mustered a mighty swing. Several of the canned goods at the bottom of the back must have connected with the creature's skull, because for a brief moment the beast went down, stunned and whimpering.

Joules knew his window of opportunity was small, and he scrambled to regain his footing. Again his left leg flared with pain, but his adrenaline overrode the agony and he managed to stand. With effort he finally freed the BB gun from his shoulder. Oddly it occurred to him, in the midst of this life and death struggle, that he would have to devise a better way to carry the weapon.

Those thoughts evaporated as he brought the gun around and noticed the wild dog had also regained its footing and was charging with reckless abandon!

Again he felt the panic rising, but he fought it down as he squeezed off two quick shots. The first went wide to the right of the gaping muzzle, but the second hit the beast square in its right eye.

The creature howled with fury shaking its head wildly as it continued its rage fueled charge. With no time for another shot, Joules grabbed the gun on both ends and held it perpendicular to his body as a shield.

Both combatants hit the ground again as the dog hurtled into Joules. Its head still thrashing as the hideous yellow teeth snapped over and over again at the boy's face. Fortunately he had the gun wedged across the creature's throat, keeping those powerful jaws just out of reach. Yet, with every terrifying snap, the wild dog's fangs got closer and closer to Joules' exposed throat.

Joules began to feel his strength running out as his leg started throbbing in time with his frantic heart beats. Despite his desperate situation he knew his adrenaline was waning. He wouldn't be able to fend off the feral beast forever. He needed to think of something, and he needed to do it fast!

Craning his neck wildly from side to side, he could feel the grit and crumbling asphalt digging into his head as he urgently assessed his immediate surroundings.

To his left his backpack lay on the ground where he had dropped it when he went for his gun. It occurred to Joules that his hunting knife was in it, but the pack lay hopelessly out of his reach. He made a mental note to wear the knife on his belt from here after – if he lived that long…

To his right was a gaping hole where a huge hunk of concrete had torn away from the overpass and crashed to the roadway below. It lay about 30 feet below, jagged pieces of rusty steel rebar jutted up toward the hole like fingers reaching for their original home.

Another vicious snap, this one louder and a lot closer than the last, brought Joules' attention back to his attacker. Turning his attention back to the rabid dog, he discovered that they were now practically nose to nose. The creature's hot breath smelled of rotting meat and decay, and Joules winced as thick saliva dripped off the yellow fangs and onto his cheeks and throat.

The animal stared Joules directly in the eyes. In one of the creatures eyes Joules could see only blood and gory pulp oozing from the shattered socket. In the other he saw only blind rage and the desire to kill.

A silent understanding passed between both combatants at that moment. During that brief exchange, Joules tried his best to convey to his attacker a sense of defeat and surrender.

The creature could sense its opponent's strength beginning to flag, and snarled with an air of victory. Swollen with confidence, the beast paused to savor the moment as it prepared to deliver the killing stroke.

Joules was ready. In that split second of the creature's overconfidence, Joules made his last desperate bid for survival. With the last of his remaining strength, he exploded into a roll to his right. The startled dog couldn't react in time to counter their momentum and both man and animal tumbled through the opening of the tattered overpass.

As he fell, Joules engaged his VATS and was again overcome by the strange sensation. Despite his rapid descent, every thing around him appeared as if it were taking place in slow motion. His senses all seemed heightened as fear and adrenaline coursed through his veins. He could smell the sweat and hate and disease emanating from the feral canine. Colors were vivid as details exploded through his brain. He could see the individual particles of air as they floated past him. He could count every ridge on the rusty rebar below. Time crawled forward agonizingly slowly, and Joules felt like he had an eternity to execute his next move.

The creature clawed at the air in the eerie slow motion, almost as if it were trying to swim toward its prey. Even as it plummeted toward the ground, the canine seemed determined to sink its teeth into the untainted meat of the vault dweller.

Joules was moving in mid air as well. He tucked himself into a cannonball, bringing his knees up to his chest and positioning his feet between himself and his attacker. With the ground quickly approaching and the creature struggling to reach him, Joules thrust out his good leg with all his might. His foot connected with the animal's ribcage, sending the beast into a sidelong barrel roll – straight toward the jagged protrusions of rebar below.

Joules watched, still amidst the strange slow motion, as the howling canine was impaled on a dozen rusty skewers. For a split second the dog went silent, a look of shock registering on its face as its remaining eye darted about wildly. An instant later the angry howls tuned to howls of agony as the sharp, broken ends of the rebar burst through the creature's right side in an explosion of blood and bones and gore.

Frantically the dog flailed its legs in a futile attempt to free its ruined body from the rusty spikes, but its legs could find no purchase in their awkward position. Eventually its deafening howls devolved into a gurgle of light whimpering, and finally, silence.

As he watched the animal die in the morbidly fascinating slow motion, Joules realized what his risky gamble had cost him. In order to propel the creature into the spiked concrete, he had maneuvered himself parallel to the ground. With no time to reposition, Joules slammed into the concrete below, absorbing the brunt of the terrible impact on his right arm and shoulder. With his heightened sense of awareness from his surreal slow-motion world, he could literally hear the individual bones crack and separate as his right arm shattered beneath him.

He could also hear the metallic sounds of his Pip-Boy as it too collided with the road – the machine probably preventing his wrist from shattering as well.

With his arm in the wrong position to shield his head, his skull bounced off the pavement next. The impact blurred his vision and the agonizing slow-motion scene mercifully faded to black…

* * *

As he opened his eyes, his body ignited in an intricate web of agony. Electric currents of pain sparked to life in his head and coursed throughout every nerve ending in his body. The sudden shock was so excruciating that Joules nearly passed out again, but maintained consciousness with a valiant display of determination and willpower. Lying helpless and unconscious in the wasteland was a quick recipe for death, and despite the misery of his present condition, Joules was not ready to die just yet.

Tentatively he attempted to work himself into a seated position. As he cautiously rolled toward his left arm for leverage, a series of pain waves rippled through his damaged leg, arm and skull. Again he nearly blacked out, but again fought his way through the pain.

Once that pain subsided, he conducted a cursory battle damage assessment. There was a healthy pool of blood around the teeth marks in his left thigh. It appeared that the bleeding had slowed, but thin rivulets of blood still trickled from the wound when he tried to move his leg. He would have to tie it off once he recovered his backpack.

His right arm hung limply at his side, assuredly broken in several places. Luckily he had raided his first aid kit before leaving the vault. He knew he at least had a splint, bandages, bloodpacks, and several Stimpaks left. Unfortunately his pack and BB gun lay on the overpass, over 30 feet above his present position.

With little choice, Joules mustered the resolve to get to his feet. Relying on his good arm and leg, he painfully managed to work himself into a standing position.

Although the eerie slow-motion adrenaline rush had subsided, the world was still a bleary, swimmy version of normal. Cautiously he examined the back of his head with his left hand. His hair was matted with wet, sticky blood, but no bones seemed damaged when he tentatively applied pressure with his fingers. The pain, however, was exquisite!

He tested his injured leg and thankfully discovered that he could put weight on it. The injury reduced him to a slow, limping gait, but it was sufficient for him to hobble up the wreckage of the overpass. After what seemed like an eternity of agony, Joules finally retrieved his precious pack.

The exertion necessary to make his way back up the off ramp had caused the blood to flow rather steadily from his wounded leg again. He would need to stem that quickly; he had lost far too much blood already.

He removed a tourniquet with an attached wooden handle from his pack. He clumsily wrapped it around his thigh with one hand, twisted the handle until the rope drew tight enough, and then secured it in place. The evolution was unpleasant, but not nearly as bad as what he knew he had to do next.

Before he could inject his damaged arm with the Stimpak that would cause rapid bone re-growth, he had to set the bones in their proper position. To do that, he would need to yank the arm straight out in order for the bones to naturally realign. Unfortunately, with only one good arm, he wouldn't be able to get enough leverage to set the other arm.

He rummaged through his pack, but found nothing that promised to be useful for the task. As he surveyed the roadway, a pile of concrete and rubble caught his eye. Quickly he formulated a plan that would prove to be the most pain-inducing yet, but he was out of options.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed a packet of smelling salts from his kit and made his way over to the pile. He wedged his wrist between two large hunks of concrete, making sure his Pip-Boy would keep his lower arm in place. Then he cracked open the smelling salts, held them to his nose, and inhaled deeply as he pulled against the rubble.

A blinding pain rocketed through his arm as his skin stretched to allow both halves of his arm bones to realign. His knees buckled, but with the aid of the salts he managed to maintain consciousness and stay on his feet.

Sinking wearily to his knees, Joules carefully freed his arm from the rubble and hugged it to his chest. Returning to his backpack, he fashioned a rudimentary sling and injected a Stimpak into his aching arm.

With his arm addressed, he turned his attention back to his wounded thigh. The tourniquet had stopped the bleeding for the time being, but he couldn't restrict the flow of blood to his lower leg forever. Carefully he released the tension and slipped his vault jumpsuit away from the wound. Angry bruises had already begun to form around the puncture marks. Judging from the wild dog's wretched breath and violent disposition, Joules was certain his leg would show signs of infection by morning if he left it untreated.

Reluctantly he grabbed another Stimpak from his dwindling supply and injected it into his mangled leg. He bandaged the area with gauze, then administered a couple bloodpacks to replace all the blood that he had lost while lying unconscious on the pavement below.

He felt the back of his head again, but determined that the minor injury could heal on its own. He had managed to reduce all his aches and pains to dull throbs and decided he had done all he could for now.

Daylight was beginning to fade and he knew his next order of business was finding shelter and resting his battered body. Yet, the tattered highway stretched endlessly into the setting sun without a farmhouse or outbuilding in sight. Joules was too weak to venture very far, especially in the dying light of late afternoon.

He decided to worry about that later. He had one last task to perform before he left the scene of his battle. He retrieved the hunting knife from his pack and clipped it onto the jumpsuit's belt – he wasn't going to make the mistake of not having his knife readily available again. Satisfied, he hoisted the backpack over his good shoulder and grabbed his gun.

Cautiously he made his way back down the overpass to the body of his dead attacker. Flies were already circling the carcass – the buzzards wouldn't be long behind. Scavengers in the wasteland learned to seize an opportunity quickly, and Joules intended to take his cut of the meat first.

After a long hour of awkward fumbling, Joules finally managed to salvage some decent slabs of dog meet. He sealed them in water-proof bags and added them to his pack. He knew he would have to eat them tonight before they went bad, but shelter was his next priority.

Twilight was really settling in now, and for lack of better options, Joules decided to search the underbelly of the overpass for a sheltered area to make camp. The structure wouldn't prove too dry if the rain returned, but it might keep him hidden from wandering creatures if he could get far enough up under it.

Slowly he began an examination at the base of the overpass. The southern face of the concrete footing seemed remarkably solid compared to the devastation surrounding it. As he worked his way around toward the opposite end, however, the structure began to show signs of fracture. A network of cracks snaked across the western wall, and by the time he reached the northern face, an entire section had crashed to the ground bringing a portion of the overpass with it.

At the far end of the cave-in was a dark recess, almost like the mouth of a cave. It wasn't a huge opening and would require Joules to crawl on hand and knees to get through it, but he was running out of daylight.

Gingerly he lowered himself onto his knees using his good arm to brace himself. He activated the light on his Pip-Boy, immediately bathing the rubble in an eerie greenish glow. He couldn't shine the light around very effectively with his arm strapped to his chest, but any light was better than nothing.

As he began to crawl into the recess he instantly became stuck. He wriggled a couple times, sending waves of pain emanating through his exhausted body, before finally deciding to back out. Reluctantly he removed his pack and stashed it behind a nearby pile of fallen road. Now smaller and lighter, he tried again.

This time he managed to clear the irregular maw of the concrete cave with relative ease. The area widened almost immediately just past the entrance, broadening to create a cozy little niche. It was readily apparent that the area had been used as an encampment at one point and time, but Joules got the feeling that it was presently deserted.

As he worked his way deeper into the recess he noticed a thin sliver of twilight illuminating a small circle of rubble and ash. A narrow shaft snaked its way up through the cave-in, providing the perfect chimney for a fire pit. The thought of a hot meal and warm place to sleep filled Joules with a sense of relief he hadn't felt all day.

That relief, however, evaporated instantly when he suddenly noticed a figure lying in the far corner of the alcove.

* * *

In an instant Joules had his hunting knife out of its sheath and ready for action. He considered killing the light on his Pipboy, but decided it was too late at this point.

Raw nerves sizzling throughout his body, he braced for another battle. Joules cursed himself for not exercising more stealth in his exploration. It was impossible to think he had gone unnoticed, clumsily fumbling into the alcove on one arm, a bad leg, and his Pip-Boy in full illumination. Yet, the figure lying in the corner remained still.

"Hello...?" Joules called out, his own voice sounding ragged at the edges and strange to him as it echoed throughout the small cavern. It had been days, he suddenly realized, since he had a reason to speak or a person to speak with.

There was no reply from the corner.

Joules hesitated briefly, and then began a cautious approach toward the figure. His knuckles dug into the gravel and dirt as he made his way forward, maintaining a firm grip on his hunting knife. He was determined not to be caught ill prepared again.

He called out one more time as he advanced, still receiving no response from the shadows. As the figure finally entered the arc of his Pip-Boy's glow, Joules at last understood why.

On a makeshift bed of dried leaves and burlap sacks lay a human skeleton in restful repose. There were no indications that the person died in a struggle, and no way of knowing how long the remains had lain in this unlikely tomb. What was clear to Joules was that his beaten body needed rest far worse than the corpse. Eventually he would have to relocate the former resident's remains so that Joules could take advantage of the sleeping quarters. First, however, he needed to retrieve his gear.

Dragging his backpack through the opening in his present state of disrepair had been an exercise in exhaustion and agony. None the less, Joules could feel the fear and anxiety draining out of him as he sat before a small fire eating the remainder of the roasted dog meat.

Despite its putrid smell, the meat wasn't half bad once it was cooked, and Joules had found several ancient bottles of beer in a crate near the dead man's bed. Most the bottles were empty, but two still contained some questionable liquid. The beer smelled almost as bad as the dog meat, but after a day of irradiated rainwater, anything was a delicacy. Of course, both the meat and the alcohol would undoubtedly give him a headache by morning, but he was used to the dull throbbing at this point and had learned to ignore it for the most part. Joules was more concerned with what the long term affects might be, but it did no good to dwell on it.

After finishing diner, Joules turned his attention to the rest of the loot he had scavenged. He had discovered two other items in the crate along with the beer.

One was a small pouch full of metal bottle caps. He had no idea what they were for, but he stuffed it in his backpack none the less.

The second item he discovered was a magazine filled with 5 rounds of ammunition. He popped one out and examined the casing. It looked to be 10 millimeter ammo. Like the caps, he figured it might come in handy at some point. He stuffed those in his pack as well, and then sat before the fire reflecting on the events of the past few days.

He stared at the dancing flames as the warmth seeped into his body. Firelight always calmed him. Growing up in the church, he had spent many evenings around a burning brazier listening to the Thetans speak of the quest for knowledge and the Universe. Memories flickered through his mind like the flames of the fire. Like the heat from the fire, the memories seeped through him and warmed his very soul. He realized that he was practically falling asleep while sitting up, and he knew that it was time for a task he had been avoiding all evening…

Respectfully he approached the corpse on the bed. The skeleton lay on a half-rotted wool blanket, moth eaten and covered with mildew. Joules grabbed the blanket at the foot of the bed and carefully began to ease it off the burlap mattress.

About halfway down, the skeleton shifted slightly and an object slid away from the skull and landed on the ground beside the bed.

Startled, Joules stopped pulling on the blanket. He maneuvered himself closer to the skeleton's upper body to examine the source of the disturbance.

On the ground, near the dead man's head and shoulder bones, lay a 10 millimeter pistol. Joules felt a rush of exhilaration mixed with anxiety as he reached down and retrieved the weapon. Nearly identical to Amata's gun, Joule's couldn't suppress the wave of guilt he felt as he picked it up and remembered that look on Steve's face. But he also remembered how many times in the last two days he wished he had a real gun again.

The pistol looked to be in fine condition, and would undoubtedly prove to be far more powerful than his BB gun – not to mention much faster to draw. He released the magazine and determined there were four rounds remaining. He reinserted the magazine, engaged the safety, and wedged the gun into the belt of his jumpsuit. The next dog that ambushed him would be in for a big surprise!

Upon closer inspection of the body, Joules began to piece together the final events leading up to the wastelander's demise. There was a small hole piercing the right side of the skeleton's skull near where the gun had fallen. A hole on the left side was significantly larger, clearly the exit wound of a shot delivered at point-blank range.

Joules pictured a lonely man sitting on the burlap mattress, drinking several bottles of beer as he worked up his courage. Before him burned a small fire, weak and pathetic – probably much the same as the man considered his life to be. Next to him lay the gun, glittering in the half light like a beacon of hope – a vehicle that would deliver him from his miserable wasteland existence.

After a silent moment, Joules once again snapped out of his reverie. He was not typically prone to day dreams or flights of fancy so he knew that his body was definitely on the brink of total exhaustion.

He finished sliding the corpse off the bed and reluctantly laid in its place. As he drifted off to sleep Joules idly wondered what he would do under those circumstances.

If he were to find himself in a similar situation – alone, beaten down, afraid – would he opt for a quick, simple solution…?

Joules didn't think so. He was a survivor – he always had been. Yet, here he was, battered and broken, lying in a dead man's bed with the dead man's gun wedged in his belt.

The irony definitely was not lost on him…

* * *

- Reap Littlehorn -

Reaper lost him.

One second the tracking device showed the blip of the vault dweller on its radar screen, the next the boy's beacon just disappeared. Based on the signal, the mercenary figured the boy couldn't be more than a couple miles from his current position – five at the most…

The boy moved slowly through the waste so the mercenary had been gaining steadily on him all day. According to the tracking device, the hour was right around two thirty in the afternoon and the mercenary was just now approaching Jury Street Station. Reaper knew he had plenty of daylight left, and he knew the boy was headed in the general direction of Big Town. Then again, based on the boy's track it seemed like he was mostly just wandering aimlessly through the Wasteland.

Again the mercenary wondered why the boy was so important to Nyhils. Several of the vaults had been opened throughout the decades, so it wasn't extremely uncommon to see a vaultie wandering around the waste every now and again. Usually it was some punk kid who had something to prove to either the other vault dwellers or to himself by leaving the nest and heading out into the wild. In Reaper's experience, these vaulties were always ill prepared and usually ended up as Yao Guai bait once they started roaming the waste.

That thought unsettled him. His mission was to keep the newbie safe – a task that would prove difficult if a hungry Wasteland creature located the boy before Reaper did. Nyhils was not the kind of employer that took disappointment lightly.

The mercenary had worked for Nyhils for many years. The trail that linked the two was long and sorted. It really could be traced back to his father and the Calverton incident. It seemed like everything in the mercenary's miserable life could be traced back to that incident…

Yet, his association with Nyhils had been beneficial. His status with the Vice President and the Enclave had helped him rise quickly through the Talon Company ranks; it helped keep Commander Jabsco's nose out of his business; and best of all, it pissed off his father.

Not to mention, he felt like he and Nyhils shared a common vision for the Capital Wasteland. Maybe not completely, but often their objectives seemed aligned. Nyhils wanted to maintain a certain _disorder_ in order to make the protection of a strong government necessary. Reaper wanted to maintain disorder to promote chaos. Actually, the chaos, he knew, would promote itself. He just had to help humanity stay true to its nature. Aiding the anarchy of the Raider factions was good for both Nyhils' purposes and his. It was a very symbiotic relationship among all three parties. Of course, even this collaborative relationship could only end one way: the mutually assured destruction of all. It was a game where there could be no winners – none, that is, except for Reaper.

Of course, getting to that stage meant remaining useful to Nyhils and the Enclave in the near term – and that meant finding the vault dweller! Even for a skilled warrior like Reaper, travel through the wasteland was hazardous and a good ranger could only average a couple miles an hour. At that rate, the mercenary would be at the boy's last known location well before dark, but picking up the boys trail from there might prove difficult.

The mercenary was mulling this over when the bullet punched him in the gut. Right away he knew his armor had stopped it, but the impact still knocked the wind out of him. Even so, Reaper responded instantly with the reflexes that had kept him alive so long in the Capital Wasteland.

As he sprung in to action, his mind was already analyzing his surroundings and processing a set of possible scenarios. Within milliseconds he had selected the best option for his current situation and put the plan in motion.

The shot had come from the Jury Street Metro Station entrance to his left. The shooter had popped up from behind a rusted automobile and fired at the unsuspecting merc. The realization angered Reaper. He was so preoccupied with catching up to the vault dweller that he hadn't been maintaining the proper situational awareness with regard to his surroundings. Normally he would have never been standing in the center of the street so unawares with no available coverage – especially in an area where raiders were known to congregate.

Cursing himself for being sloppy, the mercenary did the one thing the shooter wasn't anticipating – he ran straight at him.

The raider seemed momentarily stunned to see the man he had just shot coming at him at a dead run. As so many Wastelanders had learned before him, shooting Reaper usually just pissed him off! In a near panic, the raider fired a series of hurried shots, all missing their mark. Eyes widening with fear, the man realized he was out of ammo and made a fumbling attempt to reload quickly.

Reaper ran full speed at the shooter, zig zagging through his poorly aimed shots, waiting for him to expend his ammunition. As the raider finally began a futile effort to reload, the mercenary drew his combat knife and hurtled the rusted vehicle's hood without breaking stride.

Reaper came crashing down on top of the raider before he had a chance to react. The mercenary dragged the blade of his knife across the man's throat as they tumbled to the pavement. A fountain of blood erupted from the raider's carotid artery and he thrashed for only seconds before settling into a dead calm on the ground.

The mercenary was already up and moving as the shooter died beneath him. He assessed his surroundings as he rose. There was a burly raider to his left holding a wicked looking tire iron. There was another to his right taking aim at him with a pistol. A third was running from the mouth of the metro station carrying a crudgal and shouting obscenities.

Instantly the merc's mind prioritized his assailants. The second shooter was the most immediate threat, the big man to his left the next, and finally the approaching raider female last. The situation called for close quarters combat – Reaper's favorite kind. For that he switched to his favorite weapon: The Harvester! With the Harvester in his hands, Reaper was a veritable whirlwind of agony and death.

The Harvester was a custom baton that Reaper had had specially made for him in Canterbury Commons. Due to his father and his childhood, Reap Littlehorn knew the majority of the people who mattered at the Commons. One of those people was Scott Wallinski. Scott worked at the robot repair facility at the south of town. He preferred to be called the Mechanist, and he had truly earned the title. When it came to metallurgy and fabrication, there was no one better.

Reaper had drawn up the plans for the double-sided baton and the Mechanist had turned those drawings into _The Harvester_. The Weapon looked like any other baton when retracted. With the push of a button, however, a telescoping steel rod would eject out of the top of the handle. A second button ejected another rod out the back. In full extension the weapon was a lethal five feet of interlocking steel. In the hands of Reaper, the weapon was a whiling harvester of death.

Presently the mercenary ejected the top portion of the baton as he swung it around to sweep the legs out from under the second gunman. Ankles snapped with the force of the blow as the readier crashed to the concrete before he was able to get a shot off. His gun skittered out onto the street unfired.

Before the raider even hit the ground, the mercenary was executing his attack on the big brute with the tire iron that was approaching him from behind. Reaper drove his hand up and straight back almost as if he were going to punch the man in the face with the tail end of his baton. At the last second, however, he ejected the second steel rod.

The brute's eyes widened as the unsuspected rod erupted right in his face. The telescoping steel tapered until it reached a dull tip at its end. The tip drove itself straight through the large raider's nose and right into his brain pan. His look of shock lasted only a second, and then the light in his eyes faded away. His big body crumpled to the ground like a rag doll, dead before it even hit the concrete.

Reaper saw none of the big raider's death. He had killed the man without ever turning to face him. Instead, the mercenary's eyes were focused on the third raider running toward him from the station. Despite the death of the others, she kept running toward the mercenary at full speed. He didn't know if she continued the attack out of fear or bravery, but he respected her for it none the less. It didn't matter, in Reaper's opinion there was little difference between the two emotions.

The mercenary spun himself a quarter turn with the grace that could only come from years of practice. He had, in fact, been studying martial arts since he was a child and he definitely had mastered the craft. As he spun, he brought The Harvester up and around, grabbing the top rod with his left hand for added torque as he whipped the bottom rod into the throat of the approaching woman.

He could feel the crunch of her larynx as the blow crushed her windpipe. Her momentum carried her feet forward and flipped her over backwards. The back of her head bounced violently off the concrete sidewalk as she came crashing down.

Breathlessly she thrashed on the ground in the throes of death for several seconds before succumbing to the suffocation. She was no longer a concern for the mercenary; he still had one piece of unfinished business to handle.

The raider with the broken ankles was on his knees trying to either get to his gun or get away. The mercenary was in no mood to let either situation occur. He casually walked over to the man and grabbed hold of his chin. As the man was spitting blood and obscenities, Reaper twisted his head with a jerk, feeling the neck break free of the spine as the raider's face came around 180 degrees to stare at his killer.

Less than a minute had elapsed between the time the first raider fired and the time Reaper snapped the last one's neck. In that brief amount of time he had harvested four lives. He felt a pang of regret as he stepped out into the street and retrieved the raider's pistol. He didn't enjoy killing these butterflies. They weren't much of a challenge and, after all, they made such useful anarchists. Yet, the chaos he had just caused would likely breed even more anarchist, so is efforts weren't entirely wasted.

With that thought, almost as if on cue, another group of raiders stepped out of the Dot's Diner across the street from the metro station. They apparently had heard the commotion and came out to investigate.

For the moment, Reaper had the element of surprise, and he didn't intend to waste the opportunity. With the gun he'd retrieved in his right hand, he had to grab a frag grenade clipped to his belt with his left. He was too far to make an accurate throw, especially with his left hand, but he was fairly ambidextrous so he thought he could get close.

He heaved the grenade. It came up a bit short, but took a good bounce. He was fairly impressed with his left-handed effort as the explosive bounded to a stop close to the center of the gang.

The mercenary began a slow, methodical walk toward the diner as the raiders dove for cover. They reassembled quickly, however when they realized the grenade didn't go off. What appeared to be the leader of the group reached down and inspected the weapon. Suddenly he roared with laughter as he picked it up.

"Next time pull the pin, _Asshole_," he yelled, waving the grenade at the mercenary to taunt him.

"Thanks for the tip," Reaper replied without breaking stride as he raised the gun he'd collected and put a bullet right through the raider's fist.

The grenade erupted in a cloud of blood and bones and body parts. Pieces of the raider group flew in all different directions. Four were killed instantly, while the fifth lay in a puddle of gore just outside the diner doors.

The mercenary casually approached the man as he struggled to prop himself up on his remaining arm. Tenderly Reaper shushed the man as a mother would a crying child. Almost gently he reached out until the muzzle of the gun rested on the man's temple.

"There, There, little butterfly," the mercenary soothed as he sadly pulled the trigger.

* * *

**Please let me know what you did or didn't like so that I might improve. All feedback is appreciated!**


	7. Chapter 6

- Joules Prescott -

Joules could tell, as the day wore on, that he was finally working his way from the rural wasteland toward the ruins of the ancient outlying suburbs. The long stretches of barren fields and deteriorating farmsteads had slowly given way to clusters of dilapidated houses huddled near broken highways.

He had wandered through a couple of the structures, finding little of interest besides radroaches and rubble. Luckily he happened across a hand-pumped well behind one ruined house and he was able to refill his canteen.

Food and water were becoming problematic. He had vomited violently after eating the wild dog the previous evening, and his dull headaches from dirty water continued to plague him. He assumed that he would grow accustomed to this new world in time – he just had to keep himself alive long enough to do so.

In the distance, he noticed what he thought might once have been an ancient baseball field. He had read about the archaic sport and knew it had similarities to vault ball. He was hoping to find a town before dark, but his curiosity was nagging at him so he left the road to investigate.

There was a tall chain link fence that circled the majority of the structure. There were objects suspended from the upper portions of the fence, but he couldn't make them out from a distance. The large metal poles supporting the structure were rusted, but remarkably intact considering their age.

Behind the tallest portion of the fence was the remnant of a metallic seating area which was also coated with rust and didn't appear to have weathered the years quite as well as the fence line.

On either side of the field Joules recognized the areas once called dugouts. He knew these were the locations for the teams during the games. One of them was little more than a trench in the ground at this point, but the other had been fortified with metal siding and a make-shift roof.

He found that interesting, but not as fascinating as the scoreboard. At the opposite end of the field was a scoreboard that had partially collapsed. Two-thirds of it still stood proudly above the chain link arena, the rest of it lay rotting on the field below. For some reason, that broken scoreboard had struck a chord in Joules and he was suddenly overcome with a profound sadness. He was touched by sorrow for all the children that had laughed here, and played here, and died here during the Purge.

He was standing in pensive reverie when he noticed two figures emerge from the ramshackle dugout. One was a tall, rotund man; the other was short and thin. They looked like an odd pair as they shambled toward Joules, but that didn't bother him. He was just so elated to finally make contact with other human beings!

"Hello," he shouted, waving at the men from beyond the field. He began a hasty approach, quickly narrowing the gap between the two parties.

"Holly shit, Tiny," the smaller man said as he neared Joules. "What do we have here..?" The man's pale, pockmarked skin exuded a sickly aura in the mid-afternoon sunshine. Joules couldn't say why, for sure, but he thought the man seemed unhealthy.

In his left hand, the scrawny man held a wicked looking baseball bat with an array of spikes jutting from its thick, upper portion. Yet, his mouth was drawn up into a crooked smile.

The smile didn't seem particularly friendly, and it was definitely not pleasant. His gums looked swollen and infected, and his mouth was a mangled mess of blackened or missing teeth.

"Looks like we got us a _vaultie_, Big Skinny," the obese man replied. He was a good head taller than Joules, and twice as round. His bulging gut protruded from beneath his ragged shirt, hanging down over his sagging, shabby pants. The only thing _tiny_ about the man was his eyes. The beady little holes were nearly swallowed up by his bloated, fleshy face. The rest of his pallid face was covered in dark stubble from his oversized chin to the crown of his fat head. The stubble continued over the folds of his neck and spread across his shoulders and back.

Like his companion, Tiny was armed as well. He repeatedly smacked his left palm with the end of the large pipe he held in his right. And, just like Big Skinny, the fat man was smiling an ugly smile.

Joules could sense the danger immediately. The demeanor of these men was aggressive and threatening. It reminded Joules of the confrontations he used to have with the Tunnel Snakes – he knew ruthless thugs when he saw them.

Even more terrifying, he was finally close enough to make out the objects strung from the top of the chain link backstop. What he saw, decaying in the glare of the mid-day sun, was the remnants of human body parts!

"You know what that means don't you, Tiny," the thin man's smile morphed into a gruesome sneer. "That means rad-free meat for supper tonight!"

Joules drew the 10mm from behind his back with a quickness that surprised the two men. It surprised Joules even more. Apparently his fight or flight instincts had kicked in and it looked like it was going to be _fight_.

He was hoping the sight of the gun would cause his aggressors to choose _flight_, but they weren't backing down. Big Skinny raised his spiked bat in an offensive posture while Tiny launched a lumbering charge with his pipe.

Joules engaged his VATS, slowing time to its eerie crawl. Again he found himself in that strange dimension where details burgeoned in vivid clarity.

He could see each individual follicle of stubble around the snarling mouth of his tubby attacker. He could see the heat waves of rage radiating from those beady eyes. He could see beads of sweat and droplets of spittle hanging suspended in mid-air. Even the sour-sick aura of cannibalism that surrounded these men was clearly visible now.

Using the reflex assisting technology, Joules targeted Big Skinny's left hand first. Joules intended to disarm the man, he definitely didn't want those jagged spikes coming anywhere near his body.

Next he targeted Tiny's thigh. He wanted to take the big man down before he completed his charge. Joules was certain that a couple gunshot wounds would scare these sick bastards off.

Joules fired his gun, watching the bullet advance on Big Skinny in the surreal frame-by-frame reality. An explosion of bone and blood and splinters of bat erupted as the bullet punched through the cannibals fist. His rawboned face contorted with pain and rage as he emitted a nightmarish howl. Even the sound of his shriek was distorted by the VATS.

The second shot, however, wasn't as accurate. It just grazed Tiny's fleshy thigh, driving through an outer layer of fat and cellulose. The big man barely seemed to notice in the midst of his wild attack.

Time suddenly snapped back to normal, and again the action left Joules exhausted. He had no time to get another shot off before his attacker was upon him. He reached for his knife, knowing he wouldn't even get to that in time; but, he was out of options.

Joules had just got his fingers around the handle of his knife when the lead pipe came crashing into is skull. Again the world around him exploded with a new reality – this one entirely different from the VATS experience and much more painful. And then the world around him went black…

* * *

The world returned to Joules in a gradual assent from the darkness. Sounds were muffled at first and his vision was a hazy blur. The only thing that was sharp and distinct was the throbbing pain in his head.

The voices returned first, and he kept his eyes closed and listened for several minutes. There were only three of them. He recognized the voices of his two attackers. The third was a husky voice that belonged to a woman the men referred to as Momma Slice.

Finally Joules opened his eyes, the waning daylight stabbed into his aching head like the spikes of Big Skinny's bat. He was standing spread-eagle against the chain link backstop, his outstretched arms were tied to the fence at the wrists.

Tiny stood in front of him, holding his vault ball bat. As Joules' vision cleared, he also noticed the hulking brute wearing his red ball cap. The cap reminded him of the last time he had seen Amata, and it infuriated Joules to see it perched on the cannibal's bulbous head.

The cap looked ridiculous on the man. Unable to stretch it over his fleshy skull, the fool had perched the cap precariously atop his stubble. Somehow, the puny hat accentuated his beady eyes, making it hard to determine which looked less natural on the cannibal's pallid face.

Joules noticed a rag tied around the man's bulging thigh. The flesh wound didn't seem to be bothering the brute much, and Joules cursed himself for wasting his shot. He knew he should have aimed for center of mass – he could have hit that area without VATS assistance. It was still difficult for him to willfully take a human life – even one as degenerated as a Wasteland cannibal. Yet, he knew that he would have to toughen up if he were going to survive this savage new environment. But first he had to survive this encounter…

"Come on boys, let's gut'im and cook'im."

Joules recognized the voice as the one they called Momma Slice. He craned his neck to look over his right shoulder, a motion that sent a whole new level of pain throughout his head. He saw the woman sitting on what remained of the bleachers. She was a large woman too, not nearly as large as Tiny, but just as shabbily dressed. Her fat, wrinkled face was framed in a wild mass of knotted and tangled grey hair.

On her lap sat his butcher knife. Again Joules was overcome with anger at having been robbed. A powerful hatred for these Wasteland savages was welling up inside him as he pictured them rifling through his backpack. He vowed never to pull his gun again unless he intended on aiming to kill.

"Hold yer horses, Mama Slice," Tiny replied. "Big Skinny says we gotta _tenderize_ the meat first…" His rotted mouth curled into a gaping grin.

"Well, hurry up boys. It's been ages since I cooked me a vaultie, and I got a new recipe I wanna try."

"You almost ready with that thing 'Skinny?" Tiny asked, turning around toward the outfield.

Joules followed the big man's gaze and for the first time noticed Big Skinny standing several yards away. The man was fiddling with a contraption that looked similar to a vault ball pitching machine. At first, Joules thought the brute named Tiny was going to use the boy's bat to beat him with it. Now he was beginning to suspect that the men had a darker game in mind…

"Got it!" Big Skinny whooped as the two wheels on the contraption spun to life. He made some more adjustments, lowering the back leg a little. Finally satisfied, he reached into a bag sitting in the dirt next to the machine and pulled out a baseball.

"Awright Tiny, batter up," he shouted!

Big Skinny awkwardly dropped the ball into the top of the machine with his right hand. His left had a bandage wrapped around the wound Joules had inflicted with his 10mm. The ball was funneled into the two whirling wheels and was spat out the front, rocketing toward home plate.

Joules knew from experience what it felt like to get hit by a ball going that fast, and he wished he had his vault ball helmet on. He noticed, as the projectile approached, that Tiny didn't even attempt to swing at it.

He wrenched his head to the left as the ball sailed right at his face. The ropes bit into his wrists as he instinctively tried to cover his face with his hands. He closed his eyes, wincing with the anticipation of the impact. The ball, however, just missed him. Instead it slammed into the chain link fence with startling force.

"Good eye, Tiny," Momma Slice hooted from the stands. "That one was high and right."

"Ball one," the big man shouted, hitting the mound with his bat in preparation for the next pitch.

Big Skinny made another adjustment to the machine, then dropped the next ball into the top.

Joules could tell from its trajectory that this one wasn't going to miss. He was hoping Tiny would swing at it, but somehow knew he wasn't going to. He had no other options but to close his eyes and brace for the impact.

Even with his eyes closed, he saw a starburst of stark white light behind his eyelids as the second ball slammed directly into his nose. He wasn't sure if it was broken, but he could feel the warmth of blood running down his face.

"Still too high," the old woman announced. "Ball two!"

"Awright, awright," Big Skinny grumbled. "The next one's gonna be a fast ball right down the middle."

Joules felt unsteady on his feet, the ropes that bound his wrists were supporting a good portion of his weight. His eyes had teared up so badly that he could barely make out the blurry batter in front of him. This time, however, he saw the man swing as a ball came whistling in.

Unfortunately, Tiny's only skill with a bat seemed to involve beating people. He swung low and late, and the ball slammed into Joules' mid-section. The force knocked the wind out of him, and he sagged against his ropes even more.

"There you go, 'Skinny," Momma Slice cheered. "Strike one!"

"You send another one'a them," Tiny barked. "I'll knock it out'a the park!"

Despite his prediction, the obese batter missed again. This time the ball came in a little lower, punching Joules square in the groin. Pain exploded through his stomach and chest like a knife being driven up through his insides. A wave of nausea flooded over him and he vomited down the front of his jumpsuit. This time his legs did buckle – the rope on his wrists the only thing keeping him upright.

"Shouldn'a swung at that one, Tiny," the woman admonished as if she were his batting coach. "That one was too low."

Somehow, unfortunately, Joules remained conscious as the batting practice continued. When they ran out of balls, Big Skinny tried a few other projectiles in the machine. Joules thought rocks were the worst. At least, he thought that until the brutes dug up a couple pool balls. The boy was certain one of those had cracked a rib.

Neither man was taking a turn at bat anymore. Both of them just stood next to the machine feeding it with whatever they could find and then targeting areas of the boy's body that they hadn't _tenderized_ yet.

Finally, Momma Slice seemed to grow impatient with the torture. She hefted her girth off the rickety bleachers and made her way over to the backstop. She seemed a little unsteady on her feet as she made her way over to the boy. Despite the grey hair and wrinkles, Joules didn't think her rickety appearance was age related.

She grabbed Joules by the chin with a shaky hand and lifted his head up, inspecting the damage her boys had done. One of Joules' eyes was swollen shut from a direct hit. The other he cast up above her, refusing to meet her sallow eyes. Instead of looking her in that sickly wrinkled face, he found himself staring at the assortment of body parts strewn above the backstop in various stages of decay.

He could smell her rancid breath through the caked blood that had finally coagulated and dried around his nose and mouth. He knew she had her face inches from his – sizing him up. When he finally looked at her, he saw puddles of drool pooling at the corners of her putrid mouth. She seemed consumed with visions of how he would taste as a trickle of the drool began working its way down the lines and wrinkles that led to her hairy chin.

Behind her, still standing near the pitching machine, Tiny and Big Skinny stood in rapt attention. Saliva dripped from their mouths as well, but the men seemed too caught up in the moment to do anything but watch Momma Slice do her work. They lingered like dogs at a table, waiting for their master to throw them some scraps.

"Been a while since we had us a vaultie as a diner guest, hey boys," she cackled, amused at her own words.

The men returned the laughter. Their high pitched response was more a mixture of raw tension and nervous excitement than it was amusement. Joules thought he could also detect an undercurrent of mania running between all three of his captors.

Momma Slice leaned even closer to Joules, her nose practically touching his. Her fetid breath filled his nostrils and made his good eye water from the rancid stench. He studied her through his tear-filled eye, knowing this was going to be the last face he ever saw. Her manic eyes revealed the breadth of her lunacy, twitching slightly as they held the boy's gaze. The spittle continued to trickle down her face and drip off her chin. Joules could feel the sickly-sweet aura radiate from her pallid grey face like heat from a fire.

He burned with a fire too – his fueled by anger. An inferno of emotions blazed through him like his own personal _Purge_. Regrets fed the flames, fanned them like the bellows of a forge. He regretted not knowing his parents. He regretted hating them for all these years. He regretted not truly letting other people in – even Amata. Most of all, he regretted leaving the vault without telling her how he truly felt, and knowing he would never get that chance now…

The haggard woman seemed to read his mind. As a tremor rippled through her, her manic eyes appeared almost apologetic. She placed her wetted lips to the boy's ear and spoke to him with an odd, almost motherly tone.

"You should have stayed in your vault, boy," she whispered as she slid his own knife into his stomach…

* * *

- Protector Casdin -

Protector Henry Casdin sat at the small table in the "war room" of Fort Independence. What was once an open-plan office room in the eastern area of the pre-War fort had been converted by the Brotherhood Outcasts to a command and control center. Besides the war room, the thick concrete bunker housed filing cabinets, safes, and a bank of terminals where dispatchers monitored the legion of roving Outcast Patrols throughout the Wasteland.

Although in his fifties, Casdin maintained the clean-cut, chiseled appearance of a much younger man. His buzz cut hair was still as dark as his brooding eyes. Currently those eyes were focused on Defender Morgan, his second in command.

As she always did, Anne Marie Morgan met the Protector's gaze head on. Her toughness in battle and her no-nonsense attitude in the war room were some of the reasons Casdin had promoted her to his most trusted position. Her loyalty, however, was reason number one.

She was twenty years his junior, but sometimes he thought her dark black face looked centuries old. He knew it was her honor and sense of duty that caused her to carry such a heavy burden. He respected her for it, but sometimes he worried that her gung-ho commitment would lead her to an early grave; and, the Outcasts couldn't afford to lose soldiers – especially soldiers as valuable as Defender Morgan. The thought of losing soldiers reminded him of why he had called this gathering.

"Tell me again what happened to Specialist Bowser," the Protector asked? He gnawed the end of a cigar as he spoke, a subconscious habit that calmed his nerves. Casdin loved a good cigar. Other than gathering pre-War technology, gathering cigars for their Protector was an Outcast Patrol's next highest priority.

"As you know, Protector, the Raider insurgents have been gaining strength and numbers. Somehow they are getting access to military grade weaponry," Defender Morgan replied, running a hand through black hair that she kept as short as Casdin's.

Casdin mulled this over as he chewed his cigar. Morgan continued to stare at him; her intelligent brown eyes seemed to be trying to gauge his disposition. He wasn't sure if he could gauge it himself. Reports of increased Raider activity from the Fairfax Ruins and surrounding areas were troubling, but the question that plagued him most was _why_?

Although his soldiers had been plagued by Raider incursions from time to time, it didn't used to be so common. Raiders normally picked on weaker towns and settlements. Attacking a fortified Outcast outpost didn't seem like their _modus operandi_.

"Patrols have reported increased caravan activity at the trade post outside the canyon of Evergreen Mills. Many of these caravans have included Talon Company guards."

"Talon mercs as guards…" the Outcast leader repeated. He puffed at his cigar as he mulled that information over. It wasn't unheard of for the Talon Company to hire on as caravan guards, but it wasn't all that common. The company mercs liked to think of themselves as above that sort of work.

The Protector continued to stall, knocking his cigar ashes on the floor before finally asking the question that he didn't want to ask.

"Are the shipments coming from Fort Bannister?" he grudgingly inquired.

"It's hard to tell, Sir," Morgan answered, knowing the Protector wouldn't like the answer. It was no secret that Fort Bannister was a sore subject with Protector Casdin. "The caravans continuously circumnavigate that Wasteland. The shipments could come from just about anywhere."

Casdin's brow furrowed as he considered his Defender's answer. Fort Bannister had been a thorn in his side ever since he had left the Citadel. He was convinced there was a cache of pre-War technology in the bowels of the old fortification. It had been one of the main reasons he had selected this area when he split from Lyons' Brotherhood. Even with the Outcasts' superior technology that they brought with them to this region, flushing the Raiders out of Fort Independence had taken longer and been more costly than Casdin had anticipated. And while his soldiers were battling the Raider insurgents, Commander Jabsco and his Talon Company mercenaries were setting up shop at Fort Bannister.

The amount of resources Casdin would have to throw at Jabsco and his mercs would make the Raider battles seem like child's play.

Yet, the thought of Wasteland soldiers of fortune having access to a trove of pre-War treasures always chapped Casdin's hide. It was his sole mission to prevent such technology from falling into the hands of the ignorant and irresponsible population of the waste. The Brotherhood Outcasts could ill afford to have Talon mercs running around the Wasteland with superior weaponry and armor. The Protector didn't like the idea of the Raider rebels possessing it either – but they were definitely getting it from somewhere…

"So tell me about the latest attack," Casdin finally grumbled.

"They flanked me on the bridge," Defender Rococo Rockfowl responded. He was the youngest Defender to have defected from the Brotherhood of Steel. Rockfowl was indifferent toward Wastelanders, and Elder Lyons for that matter, but he worshipped technology. As a voracious student of pre-War weaponry, Rockfowl mastered every weapon he got his hands on. Since their split from the Brotherhood, Rockfowl had become Casdin's heavy-weapons specialist and one of his most trusted Defenders.

"I've never seen such coordination from a _Raider_ incursion." The young Defender added.

The protector's scowl deepened. Every report seemed to be going from bad to worse. He was gnawing at the end of his cigar so much during this meeting he figured he might as well eat the damn thing instead of smoke it.

"You're telling me they are getting better weapons _and_ better training?" The Outcast leader inquired incredulously.

"I wouldn't say they looked like a military strike force out there, but they are definitely more organized. They coordinated their attacks from both sides of the bridge at the same time. The western group had a missile launcher and – "

"Missile launcher!" Casdin barked.

"That's right, Sir," Defender Morgan interjected. "We're battling some high powered insurgents out there."

"So you fell back to the defensive position?"

"Affirmative Sir," Rockfowl replied. "It was all I could do to get off that bridge and back to the fence line alive!"

"We believe the missile shot was their signal. They sent two assault teams across the bridge as Defender Rockfowl described, and another on the roadway from the north." Morgan added. "I ordered the Fallback Posture, but Specialist Bowser was bogged down in the bunker."

Morgan had a knack for presenting the details without sounding like she was making excuses. Casdin had always appreciated that quality in her battle assessments.

"And they took him alive?" Casdin asked. His voice was matter-of-fact, not accusatory.

"He appeared to be wounded but alive when they overtook his position." Morgan confirmed – shades of concern and regret darkened her brown eyes. "I should have led a team back to him…"

"Then they'd have you too," the Protector admonished, a puff of cigar smoke billowing around his stern face. "It's easy to be hard, Defender Morgan," he schooled, "But it's hard to be smart."

Morgan responded with a silent nod of understanding. She still seemed unsettled, but appeared slightly relieved that Casdin had backed her decision.

"I'll double the post on the bridge, Sir," Rockfowl interjected, shifting the mood. "Now that we know what we're up against we won't get caught with our pants down again." The young man quickly shot a glance at his superior officer, Morgan. He seemed to realize that his last statement might have sounded like a criticism of her leadership.

"I'm sure you won't, Defenders," Casdin assured them both, hoping to ease the tension for everyone at the table.

"And I've ordered the patrols to keep an eye on the trader routes for all Talon guarded shipments. Not to interfere with their technology gathering mission, of course," Morgan added the second statement quickly. She obviously didn't want Casdin to think she was losing sight of the primary mission. Elder Lyons had done enough of that already. "But I'd sure like to know where those Raider shipments are coming from."

"As would I, Miss Morgan," the Protector replied as he finally stubbed out his mangled cigar on the table. "As would I…"

* * *

**Please let me know what you did or didn't like so that I might improve. All feedback is appreciated!**


	8. Chapter 7

- Overseer Almodovar -

As he so often did, Alphonse Almodovar sat at his desk contemplating his greatest failure. He had once had the most valuable minds of the scientific community under his command. Vault 101 was specifically designated for the premier pre-War thinkers. Geniuses from all fields of study were placed in the vault as a single point of continued research and development for the government.

Their work for the Enclave had made the Almodovar family the most revered name among Overseers. Although unknown to vault commoners, the Almodovars had supplied the Enclave with every technological advancement the Vault 101 scientific community had dreamt up over the last century. Research in mechanical and electrical engineering had led to better armor and weaponry for the Enclave. Research in computer sciences, robotics and aerospace led to regaining lost technologies such as satellite communication and Vertibird production. Even studies in the medical fields such as bioengineering and genetics had led to discoveries like the deathclaws. The list went on and on, but it was the Prescott's discoveries that had both excited and worried the Enclave the most.

James Prescott was head of the bioengineering lab. As the leading authority on genetic research, he had been attempting to develop a "vaccine for radiation". The goal was to prevent cellular mutation when the vault denizens finally returned to the surface to rebuild society. At first, his experiments with altering DNA in such a way that its dual helical structure transformed into a quadruple helical structure seemed like a solution to a subject's vulnerability to radiation damage. Those experiments, however, inadvertently resulted in something far more sinister.

His modified versions of that vaccine, when tested on lab animals, didn't prevent cellular mutation, but accelerated the activity. The test animals began to grow dramatically larger in size and muscular structure, even exhibiting increased brain activity.

The results, however, were extremely unpredictable. The animals would grow into hideously mutated versions of their former selves within twenty four hours of injection. Within forty eight to ninety six hours, however, the abominations would die.

Instead of a vaccine, James considered his discovery a virus. He referred to it as the Forced Evolutionary Virus and seemed almost ashamed to discuss it. Viewing it as a failure, he worked tirelessly in an attempt to modify it into a useful mutation prohibitor.

The Enclave, on the other hand, didn't consider it a failure at all. To an organization bent on developing the world's greatest military, the Enclave saw these unexpected results as a major military potential. Alphonse could still remember the rare look of pleasure on Nyhils' face when he had learned of the "failure" in the lab. Overseer Almodovar soon discovered all the dark designs the Enclave had for the FEV. An airborne version, for example, could be deployed as a chemical weapon and destroy entire populations without damaging the underlying infrastructure. A version that didn't kill the infected could be used to create an army of mutants – next generation soldiers. The possibilities seemed endless to the Enclave, and Alphonse enjoyed the prestige that came with being the gatekeeper of the Enclave's technological information.

But James was not the only scientist the Enclave had their eye on. His wife, Catherine, was a genius in her own right. She was unparalleled in the field of computer science. Together the two of them created a modification to the Pip-Boy known as VATS. The system combined computing and biology to actually "assist" the human mind. The Enclave seemed highly interested in this field of study as well. Alphonse couldn't recall the amount of times Nyhils pestered him for the latest data coming from Catherine's laboratory. Apparently the Enclave wanted her technology to develop some form of mind control over their deathclaws. They had visions of expanding it to control enemies as well, maybe even human enemies.

It was a very exciting period in the Overseer's reign until the day that Catherine developed a virus of her own. While working on a network vulnerability project she created a "worm" that allowed her access and control over every computerized system in the vault. The project had startling implications – especially if someone wanted to sabotage a vital vault utility such as the water purification system or the reactor plant. She even had access to the vault robots that were wirelessly linked to the system. It was such a danger to vault safety and security that she shut the project down immediately. Unfortunately for Overseer Almodovar, she didn't shut it down before she learned of all the information he had been sending to the Enclave over the past forty years.

She had kept that a secret from Alphonse for nearly a month as she and her husband prepared to destroy the biomedical lab and leave the vault. It was only by sheer happenstance that one of his informants in the science labs caught wind of the escape plan and notified the Overseer at the eleventh hour.

With the sabotage already in progress, he had ordered the lab flooded with radiation diverted from the reactor core in an attempt to preserve any research materials yet undestroyed. The countermeasure had somewhat worked, but there were two major exceptions.

The first was Catherine. Alphonse had assumed that both of the Prescotts were in the lab when he ordered it sealed and flooded with the radiation – but they weren't. Catherine had been in her own lab gathering up the last of her research.

Realizing her husband was trapped, Catherine continued on with the second phase of their plan. While the Overseer and his security team were descending on the Bio Lab, Catherine was sneaking out of the vault with all the research – using the Overseer's very own tunnel for the escape! That was something Nyhils _never_ let Alphonse forget.

The second major wrinkle in the Overseer's counter attack was the fact that James Prescott didn't die. Luckily the geneticist had made a horrific show of thrashing around the lab before he finally fell to the floor and out of the security camera's field of view. It had been easy enough to doctor that footage to make it appear like the man had died a horrible death. Alphonse claimed that both of the Prescotts had died during the sabotage attempt. He had shown the ghastly "death" scene footage several times in the posthumous trial that resulted in the conviction of treason for the two scientists.

Yet, in actuality, neither scientist had died that day. James Prescott transformed into a genetically mutated abomination that Alphonse had found both horrifying and fascinating. The transformation had taken its toll on the scientist, rendering him unconscious for several days. It had given the Overseer plenty of time to remove him, decontaminate him, and smuggle him down into the depths of the vault where Alphonse kept an occasional prisoner he thought might become valuable in the future. And when it came time for the Overseer to recount these unfortunate events to the Enclave, James turned out to be an extremely valuable prisoner.

Nyhils was unhappy with the Overseer's report of the loss of the lab and much of its research. He was furious about the loss of Catherine. But the thought of a real, live mutant had almost made up for the incident – almost.

There was one small problem with the new development. Creating a living mutant was a huge scientific step toward the mutant army of the Enclave's dreams. Recreating the event, however, proved to be nearly impossible. The scientific anomaly was no good to the Enclave if it couldn't be reproduced in the laboratory. Unfortunately, it seemed as if the only one who really understood how it had occurred was the mutant himself.

Overseer Almodovar had vowed to make the mutant talk. And to keep that promise, he had employed just about every interrogation technique he had at his disposal short of killing the creature. Alphonse had told the beast that his wife was alive and being tortured because of his refusal to cooperate. He had told the beast that his wife was dead. He had threatened to bring the beast's son down into the bowels of the vault and dismember him piece by piece in front of the mutant until he revealed the secrets of his work. None of it, however, proved to be very successful.

The mutated scientist refused to tell his interrogators where his wife had gone. He refused to tell them what she had done with the research. He tried to refuse to discuss his discoveries, but at least in that department, the Overseer had made some small amount of progress.

A new laboratory was built right there in the bowels of the vault. The Overseer hand selected the construction crew, the security team, and even the scientists that would operate the covert research center. He would leave nothing to chance this time.

He had interrogators working around the clock to torture information out of the beast. He had scientists conducting experiments on the creature and reconstructing Prescott's lost research from every scrap of material that had been salvaged from the genetics lab and every ounce of information that had been beaten out of the abomination.

Despite this monumental effort, the secret laboratory still hadn't produced a mutant that could function at the same levels as the mutated scientist.

Alphonse was so frustrated that he had finally proposed making good on his threat to torture Prescott's son, but Nyhils had refused that tactic.

The Enclave was convinced that Catherine Prescott would eventually come back for the boy, and for some reason Nyhils seemed to want that woman just as much as he wanted the secrets of mutation – maybe even more…

And now, apparently, she had done just what the Enclave had suspected she would. After fifteen years of stubborn resistance, the Overseer finally had some new leverage to use on his mutated prisoner. What Alphonse needed now, however, was a new interrogator. He needed someone big and ruthless to get the job done, and he thought he knew just the man.

* * *

- Officer Beef O'Brian -

Beef sat outside the Overseer's office. He really needed a fix, but he didn't dare risk it. Instead, he sat fidgeting on the couch, his leg nervously bouncing as he waited for an appointment that the Overseer had personally requested.

It had been several days since that hot-shot punk Stevie Mack had been killed by the traitor's boy. Security Chief Hannon had told the department the _sad news_ the day after the Super Series. Losing one of their own had come as quite a shock to the security officers – not so much to Beef. He hadn't known exactly why the Overseer's manipulative daughter made him tamper with Mack's weapon, but he was pretty sure it wasn't going to end well for the kid. Once you got on the wrong side of that Almodovar bitch, you're days were numbered.

The thought made him wonder about his own future, and that thought made his leg twitch even faster. _Hot damn_ he really needed a snort of Jet. He couldn't help thinking that she had double-crossed him somehow. Maybe she had turned him in to get in good with the old man. If that were the case, he would bury the bitch. If he was going down for Mack's murder, he wasn't going down alone.

But that didn't entirely make sense to him. She knew he could implicate her. Sure it would be her word against his, but he didn't think she really wanted all those implications and seeds of doubt planted in the minds of the masses. She was their princess. Mother to the orphans. Heiress to the Almodovar Empire. Why would she want aspersions cast on her character – even from a junkie cop like Beef?

Besides, he was one of her best informants. He had always been loyal to her, and as much as he hated to admit it, he always would be. She had taken care of it when he had gone a little too far with some perps. That damn Buffmania was a real tricky deal sometimes. She had smoothed it over for him and he didn't really think she would sell him out. Not to mention, if they did suspect him, Chief Hannon would have had him cuffed and stuffed already. The Chief didn't mess around when it came to his department.

Still, he couldn't imagine why the Overseer would specially request a meeting with him. Maybe it wasn't a bad thing. Maybe now that Mack was out of the picture, O'Brian was getting some kind of promotion. This line of thought was definitely more comforting – but he still needed that snort...

Either way, he was about to find out. He could see that drunken idiot DeLoria making her way over toward him. She actually wasn't half bad to look at with her hair all done up and wearing her office attire. He considered making a play on her, but now wasn't the time. He was too preoccupied and too sober.

"The Overseer is ready for you Officer O'Brian." She informed him in a breathy voice that was a mixture of anxiety and efficiency.

"Thanks, darlin'," he replied, flashing her his best smile as he raised his muscular body up off the sofa, "but please, call me Beef."

He thought he saw her blush as she returned to her desk, but then again, it could just be the vodka. Either way, he made a mental note to remember to get her number after his meeting. First he had to deal with business – later, maybe, there would be time for pleasure.

* * *

- Vice President Listner -

Nyhils strode through the corridors of Raven Rock with a rare sense of exhilaration. All the toils and tribulations he had endured as the Enclave's Vice President for the last half century were finally coming to fruition.

The cadence of his black boots echoed off the concrete walls as his long, leather coat whipped about his ankles. Dressed all in black leather, the thin man looked like a shadow as he drifted through the passageway.

The man's mind raced with a plethora of possibilities. There was little he liked more than information and statistical analysis. He especially enjoyed running data through a host of algorithms and mental models he had developed as a form of predicting his best alternatives. Currently, by his calculations, the future was looking very bright.

Today his good mood was a factor of several events. For one, the Brotherhood prisoner was due to arrive in the afternoon. Nyhils was eager to begin the man's interrogation. The Brotherhood of Steel knights had been a thorn in the Enclave's side ever since their arrival in the Wasteland over a decade ago.

He was also conducting one of his periodic inspections of Raven Rock's research facilities this morning. He especially enjoyed touring the various labs at the Rock. The labs burgeoned with information and potential, and Nyhils absorbed it all like a sponge, especially when he was in an analytical mood like he was today.

Doctor Oswald Avory was waiting for Nyhils outside the Cryogenics Laboratory entry way. He was a tall man, even taller than the Vice President himself. He was thin too, though not as thin as Nyhils. With Dr. Avory's thin frame encased in the white, airtight environmental suit common to the Enclave Labs, the two men looked like chess pieces standing next to one another – one all black, the other all white.

"Mr. Vice President," The head of Enclave Research and Development said in greeting as his white gloved hand reached out to shake the hand of the VP. His orange Plexiglas visor was flipped up, and he studied Nyhils through big eyes magnified by his extremely thick glasses.

"Dr. Oz," Nyhils said in greeting, using the man's nickname as a sign of familiarity. The man was a brilliant geneticist and an efficient manager which made him a rare find indeed for Nyhils and essential to his R&D initiatives.

"Shall we get started, sir?" Avory asked, his magnified eyes sparkling with intelligence and excitement. The doctor was obviously as excited about the R&D initiatives as Nyhils.

Nyhils nodded in reply, admiring the good doctor's efficiency.

The Cryo Lab contained several of the nastiest creatures in the Capital Wasteland. Various cryo chambers held beasts like deathclaws, yao guai, and mirelurks in suspended animation. Teams of busy scientist scurried about obtaining samples and conducting experiments. State of the art equipment blinked and buzzed as it processed the multitude of data being gathered by the researchers.

The entourage stopped at the cryo chamber containing the deathclaw. Even in suspended animation, the beast looked menacing. These hunchbacked, reptilian humanoids were an abomination developed by the government using a combination of mixed animal stock and genetic manipulation. Their thick leathery hide was stretched over a powerful, muscular frame that stood nearly ten feet tall. Horns like a Brahmin bull protruded from their heads and three large spikes jutted from their massive upper backs. The lethal, razor-sharp claws that gave the beasts their name were almost a foot long and could kill many wasteland creatures with a single swipe. The deathclaws' carnivorous nature combined with their incredible speed and strength made them a deadly threat to every living thing in the Capital Waste.

"This one looks fresh, doctor." Nyhils said as he studied the hideous creature through the safety of the cryo chamber.

"Yes, we just received another batch from the sanctuary." Dr. Oz replied.

"Are we still killing our specimens in the Bio Lab?" Nyhils inquired. Research in deathclaw domestication had been painfully slow and particularly fatal to the deathclaws. There seemed to be an endless supply at a nearby cave network known as the Deathclaw Sanctuary, but rounding up specimens was a dangerous and costly endeavor.

Yet, the Enclave was hoping to domesticate these creatures in order to use them as biological weapons to augment Enclave patrols and outposts. Augmenting his Enclave forces had been one of President Eden's primary goals for decades. Battling wasteland beasts, locals, raiders, and especially the Brotherhood knights had left the President's forces stretched extremely thin. The Augmentation Program was a top priority for Enclave scientific research and development teams.

"We have made some progress with the Domestication Units, but the devices still haven't proven reliable. I think we are very close, however, and we have a demonstration set up for you in the Bio Lab."

"Very well, doctor," Nyhils replied, "lead on."

The next lab on the tour was the Technical Laboratory. The Tech Lab was heavily involved in the Augmentation Program as well. The President had ordered an increase in the production of eyebots as a means for spreading his message to all Capital Wastelanders as well providing a capability to monitor the region.

Nyhils walked past several of the ugly reconnaissance and surveillance drones in various stages of repair. While useful, these robots were not very rugged and they were constantly being damaged or destroyed.

"How is the eyebot enhancement progressing?" Nyhils asked Doctor Avory.

"Very exciting news from Adams Air Force Base!" Avory exclaimed, visibly pleased with his report. "Doctor Whitley is working on a prototype "duraframe" model he calls ED-E. He has boosted the signal gain and enlarged the overflow buffer system." The doctor explained, "That should ensure 100 percent connectivity and control."

"Sounds promising," Nyhils agreed, "what about our other production lines?"

The use of robobrains and sentrybots showed much greater signs of success than the eyebot program. The biggest problem with these options, however, was with their production lines. Even with a steady stream of slave labor from Paradise Falls, acquiring the massive amount of raw materials required for the robot production lines had been a major challenge for Nyhils over the last fifty years.

"Production has seen a twelve percent increase," Dr. Oz said proudly. "Our network of scavengers and suppliers from Canterbury Commons and all across the Wasteland have finally started to provide a reasonable amount of material."

"That is encouraging," Nyhils agreed.

"Let me show you our deathclaw display," Avory pressed, eager to move on to the next lab.

Nyhils was eager as well. The lab they headed to now was his favorite. The Bio Lab was the place where the Augmentation Program was being implemented in earnest. Even as he entered, several Enclave scientists were fitting a deathclaw with a Domestication Unit.

The development of the DUs had been slow and difficult. The objective had been to control the beasts' minds in order to use them as auxiliary soldiers. Deathclaws would make very formidable weapons if they could be domesticated, which made the development of a controlling device crucial

The DU research was based on a Pip-Boy enhancement the Prescott's had invented known as the Vault Assisted Targeting System. The scientists' utilization of mechanical, electrical, and biological engineering to control synapse firings and neuroreceptors in the brain was ground-breaking. Enclave scientists had spent more than two decades reverse engineering VATS technology to create a head-mounted domestication unit for deathclaws.

The work had proven difficult and delicate. The brain of an oversized, mutated Jackson's Chameleon was quite different than that of a human. This meant that the deathclaw physiology had to be completely diagnosed and understood. Early problems with signal strength and power management had resulted in "overload" conditions which caused deathclaw heads to explode. More recent versions were showing signs of marked improvement.

The DU was an elaborate device to install. Fasteners on the creature's horns held the bulk of the headpiece over the deathclaw's tiny brain pan. "Blinders" jutted out from either side of the beast's eyes, limiting peripheral vision and controlling input to the brain. The blinders acted as a feedback loop to continually monitor a deathclaw's brain activity.

Dr. Oz approached the abomination, beckoning Nyhils to come in for a closer look. Even though the monster was completely immobilized in the bio chamber, Nyhils didn't like being this close to one. It's face was roughly triangular, culminating in a hideous jaw packed with yellow, razor-sharp teeth as big as a man's hand. Despite the paralysis, the creature's clear, white pupils tracked the men as they approached, burning with a hatred that Nyhils could sense from what he hoped was a safe distance.

"He looks like a wild one," Dr. Oz stated proudly. "Let's see if we can tame him." The doctor nodded to a technician who activated the DU transmitter. A faint glow appeared on the inside of the blinders as the burning hatred faded from the creature's eyes.

"Mobilize upper chamber." The doctor ordered another technician at the chamber control panel. The swirling haze of energy that surrounded the creature receded to its shoulders, giving it limited freedom to move its head.

Subconsciously Nyhils took a step back as the beast craned its neck to look around the room. To the Vice President it appeared as if the animal were attempting to determine who to attack first, but there was no hostility in its demeanor.

Astonishingly, the doctor reached out and touched the creature's massive jawline as a mother might do to sooth a frightened child. The beast turned its monstrous head toward the doctor, but made no attempt to harm him.

Nyhils was already making calculations in his mental models. The implications of domesticated deathclaws were stunning. Deathclaws were abundant in the Wasteland. If the Enclave could truly augment their force strength with these beasts they could once again establish outposts throughout the Capitol Waste. The Brotherhood would think twice before attacking a patrol or encampment armed with Enclave Deathclaws, and President Eden would be extremely pleased indeed.

"You've done it, doctor!" Nyhils exclaimed in a whisper.

"Well…Not quite yet." The doctor replied, fidgeting with his thick glasses. "The domestication isn't completely stable."

Nyhils didn't understand the statement, but he was certain he wasn't going to like the explanation. "Explain, doctor."

"I think a demonstration would be best," the doctor suggested. He waved at another scientist, who approached carrying a large rabbit by the scruff of the neck.

The deathclaw's eyes immediately locked onto the rabbit as the scientist drew near. Trails of saliva slithered from the corners of the beast's mouth as it struggled to reach its prey. The bio chamber monitors showed signs of elevated heart rate and a spike in brain activity.

The scientist held the rabbit just out of the deathclaw's reach. The monster thrashed its head in a ferocious attempt to get at the animal, the blazing hatred returning to its yellow-white eyes and reflecting off the scientist's orange Plexiglas face shield. An alarm sounded on the DU transmitter panel as a thin line of blood drizzled from the deathclaw's nostrils.

The transmitter operator punched the emergency override button killing the feed to the unit while the bio chamber operator returned the creature to complete paralysis. As the scientist returned the rabbit to its cage, the vital signs on the bio chamber display finally indicated that the deathclaw was settling down.

"What happened?" Nyhils asked after a brief moment of silence in the laboratory.

"Chemistry inside the creature changes when it prepares to attack. New hormones are secreted. Adrenaline floods the system. Even its brain activity exhibits an alternate pattern. These alterations seem to override the DU transmissions."

"Well, a domesticated deathclaw won't do us any good if it can't engage in battle." Nyhils stated – all his visions of a battalion of Enclave Deathclaws evaporating in the wake of one measly rabbit.

"Precisely, Mr. Vice President," the doctor nodded, still maintaining his enthusiasm in spite of the failed demonstration. "But what we have proven is that the unit works ninety percent of the time. Once we understand the physiological changes that occur in the creature's elevated emotional state, we can make the necessary adjustments to the Domestication Units."

Nyhils had to admire the man's optimism, and he also had to admit that the demonstration had proven that the R&D team was getting very close to a viable weapon. Despite his disappointment, he felt the hope of a deathclaw battalion might not be that far in the future.

"Quite impressive, Doctor Avory," Nyhils said, patting the doctor on his thin back. "Quite impressive indeed."

There was one stop left on the tour, and it was the one Nyhils always saved for last. His greatest hope for a next generation soldier, even greater than the deathclaw, was the bio chamber that held the Super Mutant.

Nyhils stared into the chamber containing the hulking greenish-yellow monstrosity. He could never look at one of these beasts without thinking of James Prescott. The Vault 101 scientist was, after all, the predecessor to every Super Mutant in the Capitol Wasteland.

Of all the projects being researched for the Augmentation Program, the study of James Prescott and his research was at the top of the president's priority list. The Enclave had learned much from all the years of testing done on the mutated scientist, and their discoveries indicated that the production of a super soldier seemed possible.

James had experienced an exponential growth in skeletal structure and muscle mass. His body grew to nearly ten feet tall and packed on a remarkable 800 pounds of mass. His skin thickened to the consistency of leather and showed increased regenerative abilities. Though his mind seemed to survive the transformation, it was difficult to determine the effect it had on his cognitive abilities. Much of that was a result of the creature's stubborn refusal to cooperate with his captors. Even so, the interrogators in Vault 101 had painstakingly extracted most of his research from him within the first three or four years of his captivity.

For years Nyhils had considered relocating the mutated scientist to the Rock. He certainly had the best interrogators in the Capitol Wasteland and was certain that if there were any secrets left in the mutant's brain, his inquisitors could retrieve it. Yet, though he hated to admit it, Vault 101 still had the best scientists and equipment at their disposal. If the beast wouldn't talk then his secrets would have to be discovered through physical examination and experimentation. Besides, there was always the possibility that the mutant's wife would make contact again. It had been a long, long wait, but it appeared as if that bet had finally paid off.

"Ah, the Mutant Program," Dr. Oz stated as he stepped up beside Nyhils to gaze upon the gargantuan beast in the bio chamber.

"Any progress with the lab rats?" Nyhils asked.

"Very little," the doctor admitted, "mutated rodents still exhibit a substantial reduction in maze navigation as well as elevated signs of hostility."

Nyhils nodded absently, still staring at the monstrosity. The biggest disappointment with the Mutant Program had been the apparent loss of intelligence during the transformation. Many of the lab animals seemed to experience extreme pain during the mutation, leaving many feral and aggressive.

Originally the Enclave scientist had hoped the process would affect humans differently. Almost five years after the Vault 101 incident, the Enclave began experimenting on human subjects. A small settlement in the ruins of Germantown was given an "inoculation" by government medical representatives with the idea of training the civilians to become the first squad of super soldiers. The conversion, however, proved little better than the lab rats. The mutants of Germantown displayed the same decrease in intelligence, sterility, and loss of humanity. Although they were capable of following simple orders and performing simple tasks, coordinated team efforts and battlefield tactics were beyond their basic capabilities.

Enclave scientists blamed this in part on the subjects' exposure to radiation. James Prescott had been a pure strain human who'd spent his life in the protection of the vault. The Germantown residents had the tainted DNA of the Wastelanders.

Based on this philosophy, the next group the Enclave exposed was the residents of Vault 87. These experiments showed more promise. Though the mutants still experienced a slight reduction in intelligence, they were able to function at a higher level than their Germantown counterparts. The Enclave thought perhaps a combination of wasteland mutants led by vault mutant leaders and a couple Enclave officers would provide the augmented forces they desired.

The mutants displayed a loose hierarchical structure and followed orders fairly well. They were ordered to begin rounding up wastelanders for conversion in vault 87. Whether from a desire to obey or the instinct to propagate their species, the mutants took to the task with fervor. It looked like the Enclave would finally be able to assemble the massive army they had desired.

For half a decade, the mutants gathered up wasteland inhabitants and dragged them off to the vault for conversion. The arrival of the Brotherhood of Steel, however, added a wrinkle to the Enclave's plans. The neo-knightly order came from the west to investigate the "mutant plague" that was running rampant throughout the Capitol Waste. Their paladin warriors immediately began attacking not only the mutants, but Enclave encampments as well.

Unable to combat this foe, Nyhils had Colonel Agustus had to pull all their troops back inside the safety of Raven Rock and Andrews Air Force Base. The Brotherhood knights were the reason President Eden had established the Augmentation Program, and it was the reason that creating a smarter Super Mutant was a top priority.

Yet, even dumb Super Mutants had served their purpose. With their proclivity for creating more and more mutants, they had kept the Brotherhood at bay for the past five years. Without the need to continually repel Brotherhood attacks, the Enclave had been free to pursue their agenda of Wasteland domination. Still, a smarter mutant would assure their success.

"Perhaps we'll have a breakthrough soon, doctor," Nyhils mused. He was thinking about all the recent developments in Vault 101. Even now, Overseer Almodovar was starting another round of interrogation on the prisoner. And the Brotherhood knight from the south was due to arrive at Raven Rock this very day. Nyhils had a round of interrogation planned of his own.

"Perhaps we will, Mr. Vice President," the doctor agreed, "perhaps we will…"

* * *

**Please let me know what you did or didn't like so that I might improve. All feedback is appreciated!**


	9. Chapter 8

- Joules Prescott -

The first thing he noticed was the flickering of the firelight as his mind drifted out of the darkness. He thought it natural that death would be greeted by fire and he vaguely wondered if he had finally become one with the Universe. As he attempted to sit up, however, the pain made him realize that he hadn't achieved the bliss of _oneness_ just yet.

Waves of agony rippled from his neck to his knees, almost causing him to slip back into the darkness of unconsciousness. From the corner of his vision he saw movement and realized that his attempt to rise must have attracted attention. He was too weak to worry whether it was friend or foe. He did, however, consider it a good sign that he was next to the fire and not in it… yet…

"Easy, vault boy." The voice came from above and behind him. It sounded young and female – definitely not the raspy voice of Momma Slice. Hopefully not a hungry relative either…

He felt a hand on his forehead, then he saw her enter his field of view. For a brief instant his addled brain thought he was somehow back in his bed with Amata again, but the girl staring down at him was someone else.

She was attractive in her own way, but it was a different sort of allure. While Amata was a classic beauty, this girl had a hard edged appeal to her rugged appearance – like an uncut diamond waiting to be polished. She had short black hair and a thin, contoured face that should have seemed child-like and innocent, but something in her deep blue eyes reflected an older soul with an inner strength. The combination gave her the aura of a pixie warrior, and somehow Joules felt comforted by the presence of the fascinating stranger.

He tried to speak, but his throat felt raw and his voice couldn't force its way out.

"Here," the girl said gently, "Drink this. Its water mixed with Med-X. It will help with your pain."

Joules recognized his canteen as she brought it to his lips. It reminded him of his belongings being taken by the cannibals, but there was little he could do about that now. Just drinking lying down was difficult, but the liquid was as soothing as she had promised and he gulped it down greedily.

"Where am I?" Joules finally managed to say.

"Not far from where we found you." She answered vaguely.

He wasn't sure he liked the fact she said "we", but so far she hadn't acted threateningly. In the flickering firelight her slender face and big eyes seemed only to reflect concern and curiosity.

"What about the… the others..?" The thought of the cannibals made him shudder – a reaction that sent another round of pain through his mid-section.

"We killed them," she replied with a matter-of-fact tone. "Lucky for you I hate raider scum out here on the south west route, especially those creepy cannibals." She flashed him a half-smile and for an instant he saw the hint of that diamond-like potential sparkle in her eyes.

She seemed to read his expression and appeared to get a little embarrassed. "Get some rest, vault boy," she suggested, the toughness returning to her voice. "The others will be back soon and we'll get some dinner on the fire."

With little choice but to take her advice, Joules closed his eyes and once again slipped into the soothing darkness.

* * *

It was the sound of voices and the smell of something cooking that brought Joules out of his slumber. Again he tried to sit up, and again the pain drove him back to the mattress.

This time the face that appeared above him belonged to a rugged, wild-eyed man with a broad, friendly smile.

"Well, look who's awake," the man boomed in a voice as playful as his smile. "Take it slow, son. Those stimpaks haven't quite sewn all your bones together yet."

Despite the advice, Joules made another attempt to rise. This time, with the man's help, he was able to finally get into a sitting position.

"Names Crazy Wolfgang," the man said, extending a hand once the boy was settled. "But you can call me Crazy Wolfgang."

"_Crazy Wolfgang_..?" Joules was still wrapping his groggy mind around his new acquaintances.

"That's right," the man grinned broadly, "the Craziest of all possible Wolfgangs at your service."

"Joules Prescott," the boy replied, tentatively reaching out to shake the man's hand. Just moving his arm was excruciating, but at least he felt like he was going to live.

"Well," the man said, noticing Joules wince, "there'll be plenty of time for chit chat later. We've got some mole rat on the fire and Machete made you up some more Med-X water."

"Thank you," Joules croaked, taking another long swig from his canteen.

Dinner was indeed mole rat acquired by Wolfgang and beer scavenged from the cannibal's dugout encampment. Joules discovered he was currently convalescing in the other dugout, which they all seemed to agree was less disturbing than staying in the cannibal's camp.

Joules was surprised to discover that he was actually quite hungry. The warm meat felt good in his stomach and somehow made him feel a little healthier. He hoped he didn't have the same reaction that he did after eating the wild dog. He didn't feel like he had the strength to survive a round of vomiting in his current condition. To be safe, however, he avoided the beer and stuck with the Med-X water.

His dinner companions numbered three. The cute young girl he met earlier sat to his left, a sullen looking teenage boy sat next to her, and Crazy Wolfgang sat at the vault dweller's right.

At first the group did more eating than talking. There was an awkward air about the fire pit, everyone had questions but no one wanted to be the first to ask them.

Finally, Crazy Wolfgang started them off. As it turned out the man was a talker and he could only stay quiet for so long.

"So tell me, son, what brings you out of the vault?"

Joules studied the man next to him. His boyish face was framed in a tangle of dark brown hair that was fringed with grey. His blue eyes sparkled when he smiled – which he did constantly. He always seemed to be in on some private joke, and Joules couldn't decide if that was amusing or annoying. In the flickering firelight the man was all hair and eyes and big white teeth.

As friendly as they all seemed, Joules wasn't sure how much he should be telling them. His mother's advice to "trust no one" still echoed through his mind like a constant alarm. Yet, he was beginning to think that he couldn't survive out here in the Wasteland on his own. Eventually he was going to have to risk his trust on somebody.

"I was looking for a town. A town near Vault 101." Joules replied cautiously. He felt like the answer was true enough and safe enough. His vault jumpsuit had 101 written across his back, so he wasn't exactly telling them anything they didn't already know.

"That would be Megaton, _vaultie_," the teenage boy grumbled from across the fire. "You're going the wrong way."

Joules studied the teen. He was slight of build. Even though Joules was just guessing at how old the boy was, Joules thought the kid was probably small for his age. He had pinched, petite features that enhanced his air of arrogance. At times he seemed cocky, but mostly he seemed ambivalent. Typical teenage angst Joules figured.

Wolfgang shot the teen a stern look of disapproval. Joules couldn't tell if the man was displeased with the boy for divulging information or for being rude. Either way it seemed clear that the two weren't all that fond of one another. The boy held Wolfgang's gaze for a moment before returning his despondent stare back to the firelight.

Joules wasn't sure if he was all that fond of the boy either. The teenager was oddly out of place in the group. He was certainly not as rugged as Wolfgang and the girl they called Machete.

The vault dweller wasn't happy to discover he had been wondering in the wrong direction. So far he had almost died just getting to this point. He had nearly been killed by a fly, a dog, and carnivorous baseball players. Between the wild beasts and the wild people he wasn't even sure he could make it back to the vault, let alone to this _Megaton_. Reflecting on his current condition, he realized that everything ached, he was out of food, he was out of medication, and he didn't even have a drop of pure water left. He was most likely suffering from low-level radiation poisoning, and to top it all off, his Pip-Boy had been on the fritz ever since he had fallen from the overpass. All told, his odds of survival were looking slim.

"Don't worry vault boy, we can get you there," the girl said as if she were reading his thoughts.

"You can call me Joules." He replied, unsure of what to say to her. He studied her again in the shadows of the firelight. She looked to be slightly younger than he was – maybe twenty one or twenty two. She had the look of youth but the confidence of someone much older. She seemed like a person fully in control of her own destiny which was the trait Joules found most comforting about her presence. It was a trait that reminded him of Amata.

"Thanks vault boy, you can call me Machete." She replied with a smile that made Joules feel better than the mole rat meat. "And ol' sour puss over there is Derek, future mayor of Canterbury Commons."

Joules wasn't sure if it was because of her attitude or her appearance, but for whatever reason, he didn't mind her calling him "vault boy" nearly as much as he did Derek calling him "vaultie". In fact, he kind of found it endearing, and he was definitely interested in learning more about the fascinating young woman.

"That's right," Crazy Wolfgang chimed in – he had been silent for nearly an entire minute, "biggest trading hub in the Capitol Waste. There is nothing you can't buy or barter for in the Commons. If we don't have it then you don't need it, and if you need it then we can get it for you."

"Especially Crazy Wolfgang," Machete added, "he likes to acquire those rare and hard-to-find items that the other merchants don't have."

"You bet," the merchant grinned. "Crazy Wolfgang's got just what you need! Assuming you need the random junk that I've got."

"I could use a doctor," Joules replied, "do you happen to have one of those in your inventory?" Despite his condition, Joules felt himself grinning at the crazy merchant.

"That I don't," Wolfgang replied with mock disappointment, "but I've got a full first aid box."

Joules nodded. He wasn't sure, but it felt as if he was being drawn into a negotiation. Perceptively he realized just what a shrewd barterer the friendly merchant must be.

"I see," Joules said warily, "and what does one of those go for?"

"Hmm…" Wolfgang mused as he rubbed his chin. "I don't have a BB gun in my inventory…"

"Ha! That old thing?" Joules barked out a laugh in spite of his sore ribcage. "I think I've only shot it a half dozen times. Most of the time it just sat in my closet."

Wolfgang roared with laughter of his own. He was cackling so hard that Machete and even Derek joined him. Again Joules felt like he was the butt of a private joke he didn't understand, but the laughter was infectious.

"You gotta be the worst barterer in the Wasteland!" Wolfgang finally managed to say.

"Well I don't want to cheat you!" Joules replied self-consciously. His battered face was turning red beneath the bruises, but his bruised ego felt even worse.

"Of course you do, son. That's the first rule of bartering." Wolfgang chuckled. "Here, let me show you how it's done. Ask me about that BB gun over there, Machete."

The girl looked over at the gun resting on Joule's backpack. After dispatching the trio of cannibals, Machete had rounded up the vault dweller's equipment. "What'll you take for that old pellet shooter?" She asked the merchant, winking at Joules confidentially.

"Old!" Wolfgang bellowed. "This here gun is a no-kidding, Grade-A antique. You're not going to find a pre-War relic like this anywhere in the Capitol Wasteland. And, even if you could, you wouldn't find one in this kind of condition. This here beauty has hardly ever been shot. It's been sitting in a vault for a century just waiting for you to come along and snatch it away from me!"

Joules looked over at his equipment, thankful that his rescuers had recovered his worldly belongings from the creepy cannibals. He had to admit, after Wolfgang's sales pitch, the vault dweller looked at his BB gun in a new light.

"I'll take it!" Machete yelped, playing along with the crazy merchant. "I'll trade you a genuine future mayor of Canterbury Commons for it!"

Derek shot her a look that seemed to be a strange mixture of annoyance and affection. It was clear to Joules that the sullen boy was infatuated with Machete. It was just as clear that the young woman didn't have the slightest idea how the teenager felt.

"Hmm…" Wolfgang mused. "I'm not sure I need one of those…"

"I'll throw in a real-live vault dweller," Machete added, sweetening the deal with a smile.

"Oh yea," Wolfgang feigned interest, "from what vault?"

"One-o-one," she replied, "a rare find."

"True, true," the trader agreed, "Only the second one of those I know of…"

Suddenly the silly play acting took on a different meaning for Joules. Had he not been recuperating he would have leapt to his feet at the merchant's casual remark.

"Second one!" Joules shouted, startling the others around the dugout fire pit.

"Easy son," Wolfgang soothed. "Didn't mean to strike a nerve."

Joules' mind was so overwhelmed with questions he couldn't figure out how to respond. He was still hesitant to divulge too much information to Wasteland strangers, but this was the first clue to finding his mother he had discovered since he left the vault.

"Have you met another from my vault?" he finally asked tentatively. His voice was shaking so badly with the anticipation of the answer that he barely got the question out.

"Not me personally," the merchant responded, shaking his head no, "but I know Moriarty had a one-o-one woman staying at his place some years back."

"Moriarty?" Joules could still barely speak.

"Yea, Colin Moriarty, we'll meet him when we get to Megaton."

_When we get to Megaton_, Joules repeated in his mind. He had never heard of the place before today, of course, but somehow he felt like it was where his journey to find his mother would truly start.

"When we get to Megaton…" Joules repeated again, accidentally saying the phrase aloud.

Wolfgang sensed the sudden shift in the boy's demeanor and patted his shoulder soothingly, "That's right, son. Now get some rest. We'll get to Megaton in a day or two."

Joules replied with a nod, distracted by his own thoughts. His head was suddenly flooded with memories of his mother as he lay back on the mattress. Fifteen years had made those memories hazy, but the thought that he could be reunited with her in just a matter of days seemed impossible. He was convinced he wouldn't sleep a wink until they got to Megaton, but his damaged body needed the rest and eventually the exhaustion overpowered his excitement. As he finally drifted off to sleep, Wolfgang's words echoed over and over in his mind: _When we get to Megaton..._

* * *

_**Please let me know what you did or didn't like so that I might improve. All feedback is appreciated!**_


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